Mirror, Mirror: The 148th Annual Hunger Games
by SparkALeah
Summary: "It's a damn shame. They could've done so much, they could've been so much. But instead of growing and living and learning, they were sacrificed to feed the beast." Closed SYOT. Formerly Brains Verses Brawn. Status: Day 4
1. Closed Tributes!

My first fanfiction begins now!

I've always had a bit of an obsession with Hunger Games SYOTs. I've created characters and cheerfully sent them off to their deaths, but I've decided now that I want to take things further. I want to write my own. So, here we go! Forms are at the bottom.

D1G: Chablis Brochetto ~"To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception." -Soren Kierkegaard~

D1B: Mason Dowry ~"I am what I am, that's all that I am." -Popeye~

D2G: Venie Hadley ~"Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds." -Franklin D. Roosevelt~

D2B: Taurus Black ~"And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful then death." -Walt Whitman~

D3G: Futura Light ~When the facts change I change my mind. What do you do, sir?" -John Maynard Keynes~

D3B: Tesla Lumen ~"The measure of intelligence is the ability to change." -Albert Einstein~

D4G: Serena Melenese ~"Dark times lie ahead of us, and there will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right." -J.K Rowling~

D4B: Maximus Vulcan ~"I'm not arrogant, I'm focused!" -Russell Crowe

D5G: Hesiodia Trince ~"I don't care what people think, because people don't think." -Kanye West~

D5B: Nyso Torrent ~"Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth." -Mike Tyson~

D6G: Quinn Jennings ~"I observe and remain quiet." -Elizabeth I Tudor~

D6B: Preston Oxford ~"He who lives in harmony with himself lives in harmony with the universe." -Marcus Aurelius~

D7G: Heavenly Aquarius ~"I'm bulletproof, with nothing to lose. Fire away, fire away." -Cia~

D7B: Gareth Barkley ~"To thine own self be true." -Hamlet~

D8G: Casja Varis ~"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see. -Mark Twain~

D8B: Ajax Walker ~"Do not take life too seriously. You will never get out of it alive." -Elbert Hubbard~

D9G: Teryn Gardner ~"Better to be silent and thought a fool then speak out and remove all doubt." -Abraham Lincoln~

D9B: Rodrick Olivier ~~"The prospect of insanity is more appealing then we would like to admit." -Kenneth Nate~

D10G: Crystaille Alexander ~"Glory follows virtue as if it were it's shadow." -Cicero~

D10B: Blair Harcourt ~"Books give a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to imagination, and life to everything." -Plato~

D11G: Finlay Ardun ~"Don't feel stupid if you don't like what everyone else pretends to love." -Emma Watson~

D11B: Richard Sherman ~"Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition." -Steve Jobs~

D12G: Alicia Marleen ~"Strength and growth come only through continuous effort and struggle." -Napoleon Hill~

D12B: Henry Wade ~"There are two types of speakers, those that are nervous and those that are liars." -Mark Twain~

Form:

Name:

Gender: (If the name doesn't make it obvious.)

Age: (I do let 12 year olds win the games, because flukes can happen. However, your tribute has a much better chance of winning if they are 14+.)

District:

Appearance: (Isn't really that relevant, but I thought I would include it anyways.)

Personality: (This speaks for itself.)

Backstory: (This is Panem, so it honestly doesn't have to be all that realistic, but please refrain from creating tributes that are PERFECT at everything and have a terrible past. I'm Anti-Sue, thanks.)

Family:

Reaction to the Reaping:

Reaped or Volunteered?:

Strengths:

Weapons:

Weaknesses:

Token:

Training score, and whatever they did to earn it:

Parade outfit:

Allies?:

How far do they make it in the games?:

Preferred death:

How would they win?:

Anything else relevant:

Thanks!

-SparkHat

*You can still submit for reserved spots, but you have a lower chance of getting it- only if the reserver drops out.

 **UPDATE: I have to write useless story content to make sure this doesn't get deleted. Great. You don't have to read this if you don't want to, it has literally no significance.**

 _Ditzy Capitolite, Capitol Female, 16 years old_

Omg, the reapings are starting soon! I love the district one tributes, they're all glitz and glamour! Ugh, outer district children are gross, though- They're so tiny and ugly and _thin!_ I would kill to be that skinny, but they don't even appreciate it! They just whine about never being able to eat! Ugh, so stupid. You just put food in your mouths, idiots! IT'S THAT SIMPLE!


	2. Sponsoring

Hey guys! The reapings for Four are taking a little longer then I expected, but hopefully they'll come out today or tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I've set up a sponsor system!

For every tribute you submit, you receive 20 points. This may seem low, but you'll get one point every time you comment five times in a row, on five different chapters, and have the comments be actual criticism, not just "good." The arena I've chosen is non-hospitable, so things should be relatively cheap. However, every day, the cost of each item goes up one point.

On day one, a meal that would last the tribute a day if they ate three times a day, or three days if they ate once a day is eight points. PM me and tell me whether you want it to last three days or one day. If it lasts three days, you will be spending points better, but your tribute will become weaker. It'll go up by a point every day, but if you purchase a meal on day one and have it last until day three, you won't need to pay extra.

A luxury item, like tissues or face paint, is one point. This alone stays one point, because a tissue won't become any more significant on day 8 then it is on day 1. So, you can send lots of luxury items.

Weapons are a bit more complicated. A sharp stick is three points, but a trident is twenty. I can't list every example, but just pm me with the weapon, and I'll tell you the cost. It'll go up by one every day, so on day 10, for example, a trident would be thirty points. I anticipate that none of you will buy tridents. Prices last until midnight. So you can send a sharp stick on day one, at 11:59 pm, and it'll still be three points instead of four.

I don't want to list everything, so just PM with the item, and I'll tell you the cost. Just to give you some idea of possible costs, an electric tent with heating is twenty points on day one, and matches are two points (because the arena is not flammable.)

Thanks!

-SparkHat

 **USELESS STORY CONTENT STARTS HERE:**

 _Ditzy Capitolite, Capitol female, 16 years old_

"... And I told Concubina that, like, she was so dumb, because Lutherian was _obviously_ cheating on her but she just said I was jealous of her relationship! Can you _believe_ that bitch?! And anyways, Lutherian would cheat on her even if I were jealous, because who wants to date a girl who wore _baubles_ to your sweet sixteen bash! Doesn't she know that _opals_ are in! So, like..."


	3. The Naming of Panem's Child: PROLOGUE

_President Scardom's POV:_

Her eyes droop in her pale face. Her whole body is protectively wound around the infant. Her child. Our child. She looks like we're about to discuss something far less lighthearted then baby names. Only birth could have caused this despair in Fauna Scardom.

Her recovery date seems very far away.

And despite her dark eyes, despite the way she curls around the baby like it is the only thing stopping her from floating away- her voice is very much the same.

" _Perky."_ She moaned, the every wrinkle in her face simultaneously creasing. "Who in hell would name a child _perky_?" I grin. "Adore Tommopolian, apparently." She frowns and buries her nose in the child's coppery hair. The nameless child. Her voice comes out like a whine, pleading with me. Almost irresistible. "Why can't _we_ name our child, Chaplain?" She mumbles. I sigh. It's the third time we've gone over this, and I still despise the conversation. "Because she is Panem's child. She does not belong to only us. The citizens of the Capitol should have a say in the name that marks her forever." My voice is robotic as I say the words. Her mouth twists. "It wouldn't be a big deal if the _citizens of the Capitol_ decided to nominate a proper name for her. But they keep coming up with things along the lines of _Butterscotch_ and _Perky_."

"Butterscotch and Perky may be terrible things to name an infant, but the citizens of the Capitol have some good ideas. I'm fond of the names Cindra and Songbird." The baby squeals and pummels her mother with a chubby baby fist. Fauna sighs. " _I_ have a good name." She mumbles, surly and childish. I smirk. "What name do you have, darling?" The baby blinks and makes a quiet noise that sounds a bit like a cat coughing up a hairball. "Spark." She mutters. "Spark Tahlia Scardom. I want that to be my baby's name." I trace my finger alongside Fauna's pale cheek, and do the same to the child. Spark, perhaps. "I could arrange it." I murmer slowly. "I could set it up on the BabyBoards, tell everyone Tiara Diora suggested it.. If it's popular enough.."

Fauna grins, looking suddenly like the wife I had before her terrible birth that the doctors could not move along faster. I fired three people after her labor. "What a devious idea, my dear husband. We can have her attached to a name just before the Reaping begins." "Devious?" I murmer. "I don't do devious. I'm the law-abiding President of Panem, aren't I?" She smiles up at me. "Of course." She laughs, and her voice is full of joy that has been absent too long. "Speaking of the Reaping.." Her voice is suddenly sharp, and I anticipate her question right before she asks it. "..How is the Arena coming along?" I smile. I've been waiting for her to ask this question. "I can't tell you what it is. But it's going to be a huge success. Promise." She tilts her head, letting her dark hair, full of black streaks fading to a bleached color, fall.  
"I'm so glad."

 **I snuck a pun in there, but you won't get what it is because you don't know what the Arena is yet. xD**

 **Submit Tributes!**


	4. District One Reapings

**A/N: Here we go! And yes, this will be written in First Person Narrative. It's my default format. Usually I would challenge myself, but this whole "SYOT writing" thing is a challenge. I'm already way outside of my comfort zone, and I do** _ **not**_ **intend to venture any farther xD. And I'm not writing a lot about the family in the reaping chapters, as I want these to be about getting to know the person. Plus, I lost Mason's form xD. On with the show!**

 _Chablis Brochetto POV, District 1 Female_

"Slut." It's a word that I have seen in many different forms. A disapproving frown here, a shocked twitch there. I am used to it. They- the omnipresent they, the lurking, shadowed they- take great fun in expressing it in all manners, though the method they seem to enjoy best is the simplest. Walking up to me and telling me. Spitting at my feet and calling me a filthy little slut. The direct way. It doesn't bother me, but for the sake of my deception, I act like it does. I whimper and whine and let floppy tears fill my bright amber eyes. I put on my game face- my pain face. It's pretty impressive, I think, seeing as whenever this occurs, the inside me is crossing her arms and tilting her head. Whispering dark promises, as sour as the bubbling stomach acid that rises in my stomach whenever I lie. (I ignore it.) Promises of death and blood. _Their_ death, _their_ blood. And yet when they see my tears they assume I am the one dying inside. Who am I to deprive them of their fun? It's a perverse little game we play. Everyone gets to win.

There are worse things to be then a slut.

Serious relationships have never been my forte. I have no deep reason for not engaging in them- no locked-away fears having to do with divorced parents, or an old flame. I just want casual intimacy, but not a relationship. It is not a bad thing. But I don't need to justify my actions.

When Asker calls me a slut though, it hurts. For a second after he says it, I feel a pop inside my skull and I remember last night. But then the pain is gone. I slap on my façade like slapping on a mask. I can practically feel the plastic and grease rubbing up against my cheek. Ew. I let the tears bubble up, fountainlike. My vision blurs and he splits in two.

"Asker…" I whimper, my face twisting. And then I spot the flash of fury in his eyes. He is one of the ones who is not fooled. I'll have to slip into murder mode. Great. "Asker, if you don't let this be, I'll tell everyone you raped me. And I can't tell a lie, Asker!" I spit, ripping my mask off with a simple, fluid movement. His face twitches and I grin, victoriously.

"Chablis Brochetto!"

The square is silent, oddly enough. I am shocked. This wasn't something I predicted, never ever. But I'm not worried. I know I can win. Just keep the mask on, Bliss, and the games will be over soon. I let the tears slide down. My vision fogs again. I make my way up to the stage, purposefully slipping and wailing, my legs sliding as if I have no control over them. I will never have any rest. The arena is full of cameras. My mask will be on all the time.

What a fate.

 _Mason Dowry POV, District 1 Male_

All the times, it's been the games. The Hunger Games will be the climax of my life- everything that happens before or after it will not matter. I'm a hunter. I was born for the job of Victor.

The cobblestones grate against my feet as I stomp to the "18 Male" section. The predatory grin is pasted on my face. It will remain there forever. I'm not losing my chance to get into the games this time. Last year, that asshole Edmyer Conch volunteered before I had a chance to open my mouth. I laughed when the boy from two decapitated him.

Every other boy cowers in front of me and my unshakable determination. These games are mine for the taking. I take my place and stare up at our mayor, Aro Fendellt, as he reads out the history of the games. My lips curl as his protruding stomach wobbles. Pathetic.

He stumbles offstage looking somewhat sick. Yvette Yellstower takes his place, her electric blue lips curling up into a maniac smile. "Time to decide who will have the honor of being our female tribute!" She trills, and dives a satin glove into the large crystal bowl, pulling out a white slip of paper. "Chablis Brochetto!" She simpers. Oddly enough, nobody volunteers. A heaving sob rises from the "17 Female" Section, and a tan blond stumbles up, tears swimming in her amber eyes like minnows. She lets out another heaving wail, and collapses into a desolate pile onto the stage. Yvette blinks and scampers away as if her misery is contagious. I snort. What a weakling. The Careers should be powerful volunteers who dominate the games. She's destined to be a bloodbath.

But I forget that when Yvette thrusts her hand into the boys bowl. I tense. She pulls out a white slip of paper and begins to read out a name that nobody catches, because I instantly yell out my volunteering, and race up to the stage. Yvette stumbles. Chablis sobs. I pump my fist into the air and relish in my victory. I've got this in the bag.

 **There we go- the district one reapings! I apologize if not everything is correct or I wrote the procedure wrong. This is my first SYOT.**

 **Review!**

 **-SparkHat**


	5. District Two Reapings

**A/N: Okay, chapter two! I am SO SO sorry about the wait. We went on a trip where I didn't have access to my document. I promise, this won't be a recurring problem. I'll try and get a chapter out every week. Without further ado, Venie and Taurus!**

 _Venie Hadley, District 2 Female_

 _Insecurity._ That word has very quickly become the bane of my existence. You know why? Because it sums up _me._

Insecure because I have a sister for a victor. Insecure because I'm never good enough. There's a reason why I've struggled with eating disorders sense I was thirteen years old. In a world where everything stems from my insecurity, my inability to make a decision and stick with it, my hatred and self-loathing, it felt good to be in control. But I wasn't. And I'm better now. I think.

Jupiter and Dream see nothing beyond their daily problems. My parents are trapped in a box, and sometimes I wish to be trapped with them. Diana sees more, as I do. I love her, and that's a reason why, but I resent her. Diana went into the games, and she won. She doesn't struggle with insecurity and hesitation. Wouldn't it be nice if I were more like Diana?

Well, I would be, once I entered the arena.

Jupiter and Dream discussed the economy over breakfast. I simply stare at my eggs, feeling both queasy and determined. One thing's for sure- I can't eat. Diana casts me a searching glance. I instantly know what she's thinking- " _it'sbacki'mlosingherrightinfrontofmyeyesagainshe'llwasteawayandshrivelupohgodit'sback-"_ And I know, because I thought the same thing when she was practically dying from infection in the arena. I shoot across the table instantly, aiming to comfort her. I don't want her ever to go through the pain again. "It's okay." I reassure her, eyes wide. Pleading. "I'm just nervous, Di." Diana huffs. "Why are you comforting me? I didn't _say_ anything, Vee." I fall back, not bothering to explain. She knows what I'm thinking. She just doesn't want to admit her worry aloud. Jupiter glances up briefly, then turns to Dream again.

I call them by their names because they aren't really parental figures. They're more like an aunt and uncle- caring, but lacking of the important parental instincts in order to actually be parents.

I push away from the table, stomach heaving. "The reaping, guys!" I announce loudly. "Let's go, shall we?" Jupiter blinks. "Sweetheart, I'm not done y-" " _Let's go, shall we!?"_

 _Taurus Black, District 2 Male_

Emotions. Emotions are weakness. Emotion has no place in the hunger games. Anyone who feels even the slightest pang of emotion instantly falls to blurring blades. That is another thing I like about the games, other then the ability to make the arena run red with blood without fear of punishment. Brutality is needed there, so I will be a natural. I will not need to adapt.

I do not eat. I do not sleep. I cleanse myself when waiting for the games. Hunger and tiredness prepare me for the upcoming test of strength. While I have no doubt that I will be the winner, I want to be as strong as I possibly can.

Beatrix walks beside me, her steps nervous and flighty. Silly woman. I do not kill here- my punishment would be severe. But if this were the games, or another universe where I had full reign over all…

I would be laughing over her mutilated corpse.

Our escort is grinning foolishly as she dips her hand into the female bowl. She barely begins to read a feminine name before a high-pitched voice screeched " _I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"_ A pale, ugly girl with greasy black hair and dull blue eyes runs up to the stage. Judging by my ability to count all her ribs, she is Bloodbath fodder for sure.

 _Venie Hadley, District 2 Female_

I can't stop grinning. I did it! I volunteered! I watch, bouncing on the pads of my feet, as a male volunteers. My confidence dips instantly once I get a good look at him. He's enormous and muscular, with tattoos and scars. But it's not the rippling muscles, sword tattoos, or gruesome pink scars that scare me. No, it's the look in his cold, brooding eyes.

There is none.

He is completely emotionless. Utterly insane. And he makes me terrified for my life.


	6. District Three Reapings

A/N: Hey guys! I'm trying to make up for my huge skip between 1 and 2 with this, so here y'all go. Also, I really like these tributes.

Futura Light, District 3 Female

Logic. Logic has propelled me through my life. Logic has helped me steer clear of people I just want to befriend. Because they would only shun me, Futura Light, for something I cannot control. My genetics. It would mean destroying and reinventing every aspect of my personality, but I would recreate my DNA if I had the chance- snip out every aspect of my father. My bones would shrink, surely, a painful process that I am willing to endure. My face would go plumper and rounder, my eyes larger and wider. And my cunning spirit would be gone. Destroyed. I would rid myself of logic. Am I so willing to give that up?

And yet logic can desert me. Some inner spirit, bent on my fall, no doubt, propels me towards the clustered-up girls. I am drawn to their giggles and laughs, their arm-hooping and poking. Astra Monnetume. Elsie Twitch. Flame O'Mara. My father incriminated their fathers. Logic tells me he was right to do so. Their fathers had broken the law. But compassion, pity, and overall, a general longing to belong tells me my father should never have locked them up- or in Paylor Monnetume's case, killed him. Because if he hadn't, maybe Astra, Elsie, and Flame could be my friends. I've never had a friend before.

But they wouldn't befriend me anyways. My father is too imposing, too brutal. He brought back the death penalty. They are right to fear Cable Light, the mayor of district three.

I shut off the fountain of emotion easily. I do not care about the opinions of these girls. I don't.

But it would be easier to convince myself if Astra Monnetume was not right next to me, her eyes slitted, hands balled into fists.

Reaping day. We are both sixteen years old, so we had the unfortunate consequence of standing next to one another. Her glare burns into my skin, and I fidget uncomfortably. It isn't only Astra's hostility that makes me worried. The Reapings have me on edge. Usually, I am not worried. I have my name in only 5 times. I have never needed to take tesserae. The odds are against me going in- they always have been. More then a thousand to one. But today feels different. The air hums with change. And while I know that's ridiculous, in the technical sense- the air can't hum with anything- I still feel as if today is going to be a turning point in my life. The day when everything changes.

And I'm right.

My name is not called. Astra Monnetume's is.

She sways on her feet, blue eyes wide with terror. She takes a wobbly step forwards, tears running down her pale face. My mind is running at a thousand miles per hour- I know that Astra Monnetume will never make it out there alive. Emotion and logic, battle for a say in my fevered brain. I let out a shaky gasp and words flow out of my mouth, words I don't remember saying in my head.

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

Astra stops dead. Her eyes go huge as she sputters for something to say. But I am paying no attention to her- the instant I said those words, I regretted them. What am I doing? This is not logical- I cannot win, I can't. There are Careers out there, who will kill me with dozens of different weapons, mutilate, torture me- I have never known true pain and now I WILL-

"Come up here, sweetheart!" Pipper Valentine giggles, gesturing with a long purple fingernail. I walk up to the stage, staggering on clammy feet. Terror envelops me.

What have I done?

Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male

My fear of the Hunger Games is completely unwarranted. My name is in the bowl only seven times. But every time the reaping rolls around, an unwelcome image springs into my head- my name, called by our mindless escort. And only the whispering wind answers.

I am quite aware of my intelligence. I believe that I would last remarkably long, what with a knowledge of traps and the actions that other tributes may take to further their continued survival. But I am weak, physically speaking. If it comes down to a brutish Career tribute and I, my IQ will do nothing to help me. I will be destroyed. Decimated. No- decimated is not the correct word. It is used to mean completely obliterated, but in truth it means the death of one out of ten. The Hunger Games are a demonstration of the deaths of 23 out of 24. The word that describes my fate the best is the simplest. I will be killed. Probably in a bloody fashion, and most definitely in a painful one.

I am not yet ready to learn what comes after death.

And now I wait, in the office, my hands jabbing computer keys with a quick grace. Anyone with half a brain can see that I know much about the inner workings of this machine, and they can also see how preoccupied I am. It takes an intelligent soul, however, to see that my fingers move in a creaky way, with an awkwardness I clearly am not accustomed to. It takes an intelligent soul to see my fear, infecting my hobby.

My mother is an intelligent soul.

She says nothing of it, though. As usual. My parents are quiet geniuses, with an incredible perception of how human emotion influences actions. I am closed off to everyone except them. To my mother and father, I am an open book. Luckily, they do not broadcast my emotion to the world. They are not those kinds of people.

"We don't want to miss the reaping." She murmurs, her expression maddeningly unreadable. I nod stiffly, following her out of the room.

We move quickly and silently, our footsteps echoing on the stone. I slip past them and move towards the 18 males section, pausing to give the Peacekeeper my blood sample, and to sign in. He lets me pass with a wave of a gloved hand, and I take my place next to a nervous-looking boy I know from school, Abel Shard. I plug my airs as our mayor, Cable Light, speaks. Usually, I would soak in every word, but our mayor is a despicable man and I don't want to take in a single word that his filthy mouth emits.

Finally, the bastard walks off stage, to be replaced by Pipper Valentine. Pipper is an airhead, and from the Capitol, but she means no malice- she's just an idiot. So I don't care about blocking her flow of words.

After giggling and blundering for a bit, Pipper dips her hand into the reaping bowl and reads out a name- "Astra Monnetume!"

I wince. I know Astra, and she isn't the nicest girl, but she isn't intentionally cruel either, except to Futura Light, and no one blames her for that. Futura hasn't done anything wrong, herself, but her father ordered the death of Astra's father, for a petty crime. Astra doesn't deserve the games. But she has no one to prevent her from going in.

But suddenly-

A voice rings out. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

The crowd parts to reveal a girl. Small and pale, with black hair and holly-green eyes. She does not look out of the ordinary for a citizen of three, but we all know her face. Her name is Futura Light, and while I didn't expect anyone to volunteer for Astra, she was the one I suspected least.

Pipper doesn't seem surprised at all. She just giggles and asks for her name, despite the fact that she- as do the rest of three- already knows it. Finally, finally, she grabs for a paper slip in the boy's bowl. Slowly and agonizingly, she pulls it out. I tense.

"Tesla Lumen!"

The odds are not in my favor today.


	7. District Four Reapings

Serena Melenese, District 4 Female

Orange-gold sunset paint drips from the bristles of my brush. Lovingly, I sweep the brush over the canvas, reveling in the looping, lazy line of copper following it. Gently, I pull my brush away and swirl it in the water. Drizzles of wetness fly out as I lift the brush and coat it in peach-pink paint. I ready the brush-

"Up and at 'em, my little volunteer!"

I groan and shift in the silky sheets. A dream. Of course it was a dream. I haven't been allowed to paint since I turned twelve years old and entered Four's equivalent to Two's academy- The Weaponry and Strategy Intellect Center, aka WSIC. I begged, I pleaded, I cried- but to no avail. My own thirst for blood bit me in the butt. And ever since my parents forced me to give up the thing I love most, that bloodlust has left me.

I'm 18 years old. I'm going into the Hunger Games. I have no say in the matter.

Elvira's nails bit into my shoulder. I groan, pushing her off easily. Anyone who doesn't know Elvira would wonder why I let her boss me around. I'm not easily bossed, and Elvira is half my size. I wonder, sometimes, how such a tiny woman could have given birth to huge, muscular me. But that's beyond the point. Elvira is fierce, heavily intimidating, and won't take no for an answer. I've given up trying to refuse her.

Our different sizes are not the only thing that leads outsiders to believe we're not related. Her face is narrow and sharp, cheekbones high. Thick black eyebrows arch smoothly over coal-black eyes. She's a far cry from the blue-green eyes and brown hair that run rampant in our district. I, however, fit right in, with the exception of my size; Four citizens are usually tall, but willowy and slender. I'm not fat- the pounds are pure muscle- but nobody would look at me and call me willowy. I am far from the dryads and nymphs of Four's lore. But my wavy brown hair and oceanic eyes match the stereotype perfectly.

The aforementioned hair is currently tangled beyond belief. I can feel Elvira's gaze scorching my roots, even though I can't see her pitch-colored eyes. "We better take a brush to that." She snorts. "I'm not letting you present yourself to the escort with hair like a knotted fishing net."

I simply nod. Elvira's comments about my appearance have no staying power. But Elvira does. She has never felt like my real mother, and never will, but she is a consistent presence in my life, whether I like it or not.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I can see nods from the crowd. It was decided long ago that I was to be four's volunteer this year. Four knows I'm their best shot. I'm the only one who doesn't want me to be onstage.

I'm hardly watching as the boy volunteers, though I know him. Maximus Vulcan. That boy has a one-track mind. The only important thing in his life is training. He always needs to be the strongest, the best. Having only one aspiration in life has developed him into a boring asshole. I pity him.

"The tributes for Four, everyone- Maximus Vulcan and Serena Melenese!"

Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male

Every muscle in my body sings with anticipation as I watch Aaron and Oceanus cross swords. The shriek of steel scraping steel fills the air. Everyone covers their ears but me, as I believe it to be the best sound in Panem. _Bread and Circuses._

When I fight and win against the winner of this match- which will probably be Aaron- I will give Panem their bread and circuses they so desire. I will play their games.

As I predicted he would, Aaron disarms Oceanus and the latter boy drops to his knees. A surge of cheers raises up from the collection of boys surrounding me. Just boys. The ladies are having their competition in a different building.

I alone do not cheer, for even Oceanus is emitting a mortifying, reedy noise that my be a signal of congratulations. Aaron locks eyes with me. Two blazing gazes, one gray and one ocean blue collide. After a few seconds, Aaron looks away and I grin.

The instructor waves me up onto the tattered red mat, worn through by hundreds of boys wrestling atop it, years and even decades before my birth. I step atop it, and I feel my heartbeat race as the victors of those matches lend me their strength.

The deciding round is to be played with tridents. My best weapon. But even if we were to be beating each other with knobbly clubs, I would have won. My victory is sealed, sealed by the silent submission of Aaron breaking the gaze. My fingers curve around the bronze handle, and we fly at each other.

I bring my trident down on his, so quick it blurs into a single flash of bronze. Aaron twists, pulling his trident away and his body out of my reach. Liquid runs down his startled face, but I haven't broke a sweat.

Aaron lunges for me, face contorted in desperation. This fight is his to lose, and we both know it. I parry his clumsy strike easily and poke his chest lightly with my trident. He freezes, eyes wide. I smile.

"I win."


	8. District Five Reapings

**A/N: This was hard to write. Nyso is a complicated character and I lost Hesoidia's form, so yeah. Also, neither of them are all that likable.**

 _Nyso Torrent, District 5 Male, 15 Years Old_

 _Hungry. So hungry._

I sulk in the dark, drifting in and out of consciousness.

 _I tried to stand up for myself.. and this is what it got me.. a hollow stomach and a halo of blood on my pillow._

The pain from the ordeal is so intense that I can't remember half of the torment.

Bullies.. Parroting, Capitol-loving bullies.

I live in a community home, where I'm incessantly tormented for my twitching nose, (earning me the nickname "Rabbit,") my small size, and my beady eyes. My parents are gone, dead, stolen from me. By the Capitol. Nobody says it, but I know it's true. The Capitol takes away the lives of twenty-three publicly, and the lives of many, many more in the dark. Who's to say the death of my parents was an accident? I know without it having to be said that the lives of my parents were smothered in the shadows.

And now I'm here bleeding and starving. A victim of my own anger. But really, who can blame me? Stupid pro-capitol idiots. Nobody has business being pro-capitol in a non-career district.

I'm scrawny. I'm a wimp, a weak kid with twisted limbs. But I'm a bomb. I'm destructive and angry and caused Jared Pullo to momentarily make an expression other then sadistic happiness. Which is a pretty big feat, as Jared is currently growing a beard and I'm barely five feet. But then again, he did make me cry like a baby. And stole my rations, which is why my stomach is burning and tears are rolling down me face.

The reapings are tomorrow. I'll face the Capitol with a bloody, bruised face and a concave stomach.

That thought terrifies me more than anything. I won't let the capitol win, I _can't_ let the capitol win. I would be breaking the unspoken promise to my parents. They will see me, my chapped lips and hollow eyes and blood-stained cheeks and think " _Another point for the Capitol. Another beaten child."_ And if I were to be reaped- then they would look at me and think " _Another doomed boy. He's already dead, isn't he?"_ A hot flush of anger races down my neck at the thought. But even the ferocity of my hatred towards the capitol is muffled by the pain. Everywhere.

Hungry. Hungry in the dark.

The light of the morning burns my eyes when it comes. I fling myself out of bed, ignoring the screaming of my muscles. If I'm quick enough, they won't wake up in time. I can hang around the market in a few hours before the Reapings.

 _The reapings.._

I suppress a shudder and dart down the stairs, my worn shoes slapping the ground. I don't bother to muffle my footsteps. I doubt a bulldozer would wake those guys up before noon.

I shoot out into the blazing sunlight, and wince as the hot air assaults me. The colorful stripes of market tents dance in front of my eyes. Yells slice the air as greasy, sweat-stained bodies wander amongst the stalls. Finally. Refuge. I can go anywhere, do anything..

With my limited funds, of course.

 _Hesiodia Trince, District 5 Female, 16 Years Old_

Pepper's incessant bouncing was getting on my nerves fifteen minutes ago. Now it's infuriating. I swat her aside and she falls off the bed with an indignant squeak. She scampers up quickly, eyes spitting fire and might. " _HES!"_

"You were asking for it." I mutter, casting her a glare. "I'm just EXCITED!" She squeals. "How cool would it be if they picked me?" "Why would the pick you? Your nickname is _line-flubber."_ Pepper pouts. "Spoilsport," she mumbles churlishly. I stick out my tongue and she responds as such. "And you call me the child!" She screeches angrily, flouncing out of the room with an irritated huff. I fall backwards, eyes slitted against the bright light of the bulb. The Reapings are soon. I don't act like a fraidy-cat 'round Pepper and Cleo- the little stuffed-up pricks won't get any satisfaction from me, that's for sure. But I am terrified. I'm known as being rude, blustery, and generally unpleasant. Not scared. Never scared.

 _I won't let the stupid brats win._

Hours later, Pepper and Cleo are smiling and spinning in my dresses. Sure, they're undersized and they fit the twins better, but they're _mine._ Pale blue dyed wool in all it's glory. Ma is clapping as they twirl, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one of her precious twins may be heading to her death. Finally, she snaps out of her daze. "Let's not be late, girls!" Pepper and Cleo nod assent, faces bright. Ma herds us out and into the cluttered streets, filled with terror-filled people walking to the Reapings. Some are terrified for their lives, some for the lives of those they love. My feet hit the cobblestones, but I don't really register the impact. We reach the square and file into our sections. Ma leaves us behind, a worried, strained grin on her face. Perhaps she's finally caught up.

Our mayor, Elia Leming, reads out the speech in a pinched, uncomfortable fashion. We watch the video, numb. And finally, _finally,_ Togo Sharler is preparing to grab the slips. He reaches for a male slip, pulling it out with an expert swoop.

"Nyso Torrent!"

There's a screech of terror from the 15-year-old Male section, and a scrawny boy with curly hair is shoved forwards, wobbling on unsteady feet. Peacekeepers pull him up to the stage, where he collapses into a disbelieving heap. Togo reaches for a slip, a girl's slip this time.

"Hesiodia Trince!"

A string of expletives erupts from me mouth as I march up to the stage. Fury envelops me. I swing a fist towards Sharler who screams and dives.

Peacekeepers rush in to restrain me. I catch Cleo and Pepper's eyes, and there they are.. just staring. Just staring.

 _"YOU COWARDS! YOU COWARDS!"_

 **A/N: Yes, that was a Gone reference. Can't stop me, won't stop me. Writing this was crap. I rewrote Nyso's chapter so many times omg**


	9. District Six Reapings

**A/N: District Six Reapings! Halfway through with the Reapings! AAAAH I'M SO EXCITED TO ACTUALLY START WRITING SOMETHING INTERESTING. BTW, I'm publishing two chapters today. You lucky ducklings ;D**

 **On another note (two, actually,) I've decided on the characters who will die in the Bloodbath. WARNING: There will be a- gasp-** ** _REALISTIC DEATH COUNT._** **Which means over six. Remember, in canon, 13 people died in the Bloodbath. The number isn't quite as high here, but it isn't, like, four. Something else- I've noticed that my chapters are kinda short. This is because Reapings are boring. Hopefully I'll have more inspiration when we're done with this painful ordeal! And yeah, I added ages, because I thought it would be useful to know. So, without further ado, District Six, everyone!**

 _Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female, 15 years old_

 _"COOPER!"_

"Hi sis! Bye sis!"

I let out a pterodactyl screech and chase Cooper down the stairs, trying- and failing- to not trip over his tuna cans. We don't even have a cat, so don't ask me how he got his hands on them. My foot hits a metallic can stinking of fish and I tumble down, banging into Cooper and sending him down with me. My head bangs the ground, sending a spectacular bolt of pain up my skull. I leap up and let out a gasp of pain as nausea floods me. My vision blurs and splits as I take a few steps towards Cooper. But I ignore it- vengeance _will_ be mine!

"Quinn, Cooper, care to explain why my new shoes are covered in expired tuna?"

The cocky smile melts off of my brothers tan face, replaced with a wide _o._ "Weren't you supposed to work extra hours today?" He gasps. My dad rises an eyebrow. "No explanation? I guess I'll have to summon the jury." I stifle a laugh. "Quinn, you aren't out of the woods, either!" "Hey!" I protest, indignant. "All I did was trip over his damn tuna!" Dad scowls. "Well, now you're in trouble for cursing. You know we don't use those words in this household." The flare of mischief in Cooper's eyes grow brighter. "Yeah, Quinn, watch your fucking mouth."

"MARCH!"

Six minutes later, I'm sprawled across the table, my head pounding wildly. I've never drunk, but I imagine this is what a hangover feels like. After a severe tongue lashing, Cooper has sobered. Now, if you ask me, he's the one who's probably been drinking. The chew-out lasted a bit longer then it would otherwise. Everyone is on high alert- tomorrow is the day of the Reaping.

Our odds aren't high, but there's always a chance that me, Cooper, or Columbus will go in. We don't like to think about it.

If I'm being honest.. I'm scared.

I'm supposed to be fearless and brave and friendly. The sarcastic, majorly _un_ funny daredevil from six. Sure, I'm quiet around those I don't know, but my friends and family see me as the brave one. And yeah, being seen as a hero is nice, but everyone is afraid sometimes. And I may or may not be more scared of certain things then people think me to be.

They think I'm brave because I'm oblivious. Whenever Mom, Dad, And Col talk about politics, they usher me and Cooper out of earshot. Cooper is too wild to be the oblivious model of childish bravery. So that leaves me.

When do I get to be afraid? When do I get to be a normal child, not a poster one? I'm fifteen years old. I have my fears, my night terrors, my demons.

I'm scared of being scared.

 _Preston Oxford, District 6 Male, 18 years old_

 _Two years previously.._

 _Two pairs of wet, bare feet slap the ground as identical boys race across the slippery edge of a river, seemingly oblivious to the raging water. They're an accident waiting to happen._

 _One of the boys lets out a shaky laugh. "I can't say I'm not nervous, Pres.."_

 _The other boy flashes his twin a goofy smile. "You're the most agile person I know, Mister "Future Trapeze Artist Clint Oxford." Remember how you said that the Capitol would be eating out of your hand?_

 _The other boy- Clint- flecks a moss bit off his shirt. "You're judging my agility by a pipe dream I had when I was_ _ **ten?**_ _" Preston smiles and squishes his toes against the cold rock. "You know it."_

 _Clint shrugs. "Whatever. You only live once, right?"_

 _"Right."_

 _The two boys push forwards, feet slipping and sliding over wet stone, drops of perspiration mixing with the cold water. Clint lets out a freeing laugh- just as his foot slips._

 _The look on his face morphs instantly from a laughing grin to a soundless gape of horror. He hits the water and blood sprays up, hot and sticky to contrast the cold. Preston screams and it's a terrible sound, a heart-breaking noise that wrenches apart the sky and smothers the sun. Clint bangs into a rock and sinks down. Preston begins to scream, and will do so until his throat is raw and his eyes bug out of his head. Clint is dead, and so is Preston. Dead in a very different way._

 _Present_

A cloak of death and depression muffles the usual noise of our home. Our steps are slow, our movements clumsy. Our eyes are dry, though. We have already cried, long and hard, and at one point we just decided to be done. No more tears. Just a cold, stifling sadness.

"Preston, we're heading over to the grave now," says my little sister, Agatha. She isn't crying either, but her face is openly full of sadness. Seven years old, and with a better grip on her emotions then most adults. I nod, and stand up.

We meet up with Mom and Dad in the living room, and our family of four- formerly five- sets out towards the grave, weaving through streets and taking worn shortcuts. Our footsteps echo, as does our sadness, poisoning the air. Finally, we enter the graveyard, clamping our hands over our noises in an effort to mask the smell of death. The yellow grass crunches against our feet as we walk, despite our efforts to be silent. We reach Clint's weather-worn stone legacy and pause, deathly still. Mom drops a cluster of daisies on the grave and turns away, trembling. No, we have not healed.

"Hi, Clint." I whisper.

"How is death?"

 **A/N: I didn't want to say this in the beginning, because it was getting long enough, but I changed the arena. The pun in the prologue no longer applies.**


	10. District Seven Reapings

**A/N: First: Heavenly's POV is triggering. Just a warning. Second: Two chapters in one day! Third: WHO WANTS TO TALK RWBY W/ ME OVER PM?! SPECIFICALLY, PYRRHA. LET'S TALK ABOUT PYRRHA. I'M ONLY ON SEASON ONE BUT I HEARD SHE DIED. SHIT I'M GONNA CRY**

 _Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female, 17_

 _"Shut up! Just shut up!"_

 _Faces blur and swim. A masked assailant in the woods.. a threat.. that ten year old boy, a victim of the cruel hobbies of the mayor's son.. Autumn Aquarius's dead body, leeched of color.._

I wake up screaming.

Daredevil, smart-ass Heavenly Aquarius. Untrustworthy, _Untrusting,_ Heavenly Aquarius. Not Heavenly Aquarius the victim. Never Heavenly Aquarius the victim. My attacks must be hidden, my night terrors masked. I pretend they don't exist. I thought, maybe, it would make them disappear.

The door creaks open and I scream again. My throat has been rubbed raw from open-mouthed breathing and screeches, and I desperately need fresh air in my lungs. Panic surges through my veins, adrenaline. I knew he would come. _I KNEW HE WOULD COME._

 _I was twelve years old, taking a shortcut through the woods.. Butter golden slices of light dappled across the leafy undergrowth, creating burning patterns of sunshine yellow over the ground. Silvery birdsong split the air as the feathered guardians of the woods marked their territory with song. I felt safe. Wanted. By the woods, of course. How could I have stopped coming here just because Autumn died? He would want me to share his forest, right?_

 _And then I felt it. The seamless shift of mood._

 _I heard the footsteps on the undergrowth and immediately the patterns dancing on the ground shifted. They no longer looked cozy and comforting, but foreboding. The bird calls sounded like warnings. I saw a flash of cruel metal in the corner of my eye, my head split apart and burned with the fire of a thousand suns, and I fell._

 _I woke up, bloody and bound. Pain blared between my legs. I looked down and heaved. A shallow, gaping wound stretched between my legs, in my.. area. Blood-encrusted cuts streaked down my legs. My head spun and I let out a gasp of terror and pain. And then I saw him._

 _He was so tiny, so small. His skin was stretched and pale, his blue eyes glazed and staring emptily into the abyss. His chest was scarred with oozing red smiles. Slippery organs spilled out of his belly and pooled on the ground. I screamed until my throat was raw._

 _And then.._

 _He turned to me. Not the dead little boy, but the man leaning over him. He smiled, a gruesome, cracked thing, as his lips were far too wide and splattered with blood and body fluid._

 _And then he spoke._

 _"Hello, little girl."_

Ever since that die, I've practiced self-defense and weaponry skills. Time to put them to use.

I hurl myself out of bed and at him, my inhuman snarls tearing at my own throat. I knock him over and he lets out a surprised yell. Then I realize. This isn't him. This is my grandfather, Bark.

"Nieta! What-" His expression morphs from shock and anger into understanding. "Nightmares?" "Grandpa, I'm so sorry! I thought you were.. someone else." I gush, pulling myself off him. "Yes, nightmares." I nod. Grandfather sighs understandingly. "We all have them, don't we, nieta? But yours are more frightening then others, aren't they? He eyes me carefully. I say nothing. Sorry, Grandpa, but this is my secret to keep.

Telling you that they mayor's son attacked me in the woods may cause you to do something… rash.

 _Gareth Barkely, District 7 Male, 16_

"Gareth, clean the plates." I shoot Jess an angry look but stand up, collecting the plastic slabs and dumping the remains of sausages down the trash. Welcome to my life. Day in and day out, I'm treated like a slave by my stepmother, Jess. A true Cinderella story, but without a ball, a glass slipper, or handsome royalty. Also, I'm a guy. A straight guy. I'd rather have a Princess Charming then a Prince.

It isn't so bad that I'm a second-class citizen in my house, as my dad, Rowan and stepsister, Ivy, wouldn't stand for me being treated like that. But they don't have enough power over Jess to make her stop ordering me around.

I quickly wash the plates and head out of there before Jess can demand I splatter lemony soap all over the plates. Ivy hops up and follows me, her face contorted with worry.

"I'm sorry about Mom." She murmurs, once we reach the door. "Oh, why do you care?" I spit savagely, anger churning deep inside my stomach. Ivy snarls, her eyes going dark with fury. "Don't take your anger out on me, Gareth! It's not my fault Mom's acting like a bitch!" I blink, chastened. "Right. Sorry…" I mutter. Ivy rolls her eyes. "Apology _not_ accepted. You better work harder then that if you want to win my over, Gareth Barkely," She snaps. "Now, stop acting like a butthurt toddler, and get my coat." I raise an eyebrow at her, and she lets out a muffled laugh, swampy green eyes sparkling. "I'm not that cruel." She teases. "Or that cold. It is kind of chilly outside, so mister sensitive may need to protect his epidermis." I sniff. "Get away from me with that scientific language!" She pushes me and I stumble back, goofy and light. "Err, where are we going?" She raises a red eyebrow and puffs out a breath, freckled skin going suddenly sickly white. "The reapings."

At once, our playful air deflates, leaving us with the chilling thought of the Reapings. An icy bolt of lightning streaks down my veins, electrifying me and searing into my skin, bringing with it a thousand premonitions of death. What if I was reaped? What if Ivy was reaped? Terrifying thoughts sour the cool air. "Oh." I mutter lamely. Just then, saving me from making a weak comment like "It'll be fine, Ivy," Rowan and Jess briskly spill into the hall. "Right, time to go." Says Jess importantly. "Okay." I mumble. We step into the brisk air and walk towards what may be our doom- but we sure don't walk towards it like a family.

I file into the square and take my place in the 16 Males section. A few minutes later, the Dark Days video begins and the treaty of treason is read. After reading it, our mayor, Abrisca Belleview, walks offstage, to be replaced by our escort, Yunning Piercings. Yunning doesn't pause to dillydally. He simply dips a single hand into the "Females" bowl. I stiffen. _PleasenotIvypleasenotIvypleasenotIvy-_ "Heavenly Aquarius!" I relax. I don't know her.

An olive-skinned girl from the 17 Female section walks up to the stage, her gaze as hard as flint. She only shows a semblance of emotion when Yunning places his hand on her shoulder, and it's only a spasm of disgust. Yunning's other hand gropes for a slip in the Male bowl. I close my eyes.

"Gareth Barkely!"

The world goes terribly still all around me. Ivy's scream hangs into the air. And what do I do? I walk up to the stage. Because what else can I do?


	11. District Eight Reapings

**A/N: I'm churning out updates at the speed of light, aren't I? Eheheh. Also, I'm thinking about writing a Warriors story. How does that sound to you guys? Anyways, on with the show!**

 _Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female, 16 years old._

"Ronja, can you come down, please?"

I desperately try to keep the note of fear out of my voice as I speak to my sister. I don't want her to panic, but..

The whipping wind carries only a faint echo of her voice down. "I'm an air spirit, Cajsa! I'm _staying_ up here!" I huff. "How will you eat?" I counter, sure I've trapped her. Her response is quick and to the point, though- "Snow!"

"It's not winter for a while yet. And I don't think snow is all that nourishing." I spit up at her. I instantly regret my tone of voice, though. I know I'm a mother figure to Ronja, despite our minimal age gap of 5 years. Our actual mother died and childbirth, and while our brothers Mattis and Finnley care for Ronja too, I'm the only one patient enough and _female_ enough to be a real mother figure. I don't want to snap at her, fight with her, or belittle her, because I'm trying to be as much like Mom was as possible, and Mom was a gentle soul. Still, it's hard not to be angry with Ronja when she's currently lounging about on the top of a textile factory.

I'm not worried that she'll fall- Ronja is a nimble little monkey. But I am worried that the Peacekeepers will spot her and shoot her on the spot. Rich or poor, old or young, it doesn't matter to them. According to the Peacekeepers, any infraction is punishable by shooting. Shooting solves every problem! Starving six-year-old steals a crust of bread? Shoot 'em! A woman hits a would-be rapist? Shoot both of them! Shoot anything and everything and hey, maybe you'll be promoted! And unfortunately, Ronja is in the category of anything and everything.

A sharp gust of wind blows the tattered hat off my head. I freeze, terror suddenly racing through me veins, as well as a more-then-healthy shot of adrenaline. I'm too far from the top to see Ronja's face, but I'd bet my tesserae that she'd gone snow-white and dropped to all fours.

"Ronja! Right now!" I snap, fear infecting my voice. "O-okay." She whispers shakily, and runs across the top to the ladder.

I watch, heart in throat, as she scrambles down, wind whipping her from side to side. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't think about how sweet and soft she is, how cruel and painful it would be to loose her. I think about loving her, her strength and her oddities, and how strong she is. I think about her coming safely down from that swaying ladder, and launching herself into my arms.

 _Nine years previously_

 _The child sat, legs swinging, in the painfully grimy hospital waiting area. There was no one, not even a nurse, to watch the girl as she stared fixedly at a white door. She had seen her mother be wheeled through there, but was not nearly brave enough to open it up and see her. The girl was nine years old. Old enough to know when someone is dying._

 _A shattered scream sounded and a man rushed through the door- her father. His limbs were twisted with grief, his body wracked by sobs. He was utterly, pathetically broken, and she knew it, and what it meant. The two bend over and cried- together, ironically._

 _Together, united in grief._

 _Present_

I crack open an eye and let out a wild sob as Ronja rushed towards me, dark hair forming a twisted brown halo around her head. I embrace her, body shaking. "I was so scared." I whisper into her hair.

"It's okay, Cajsa." Ronja whispers sweetly. "Everything will be okay."

 _Ajax Walker, District 8 Male, 15 years old._

"Ajax, you better not mess this up! I have a lot of money riding on your scrappy ass."

I flash Caine a goofy grin, reveling in his anger. If Caine Potterly cares enough about you to lecture you, then you really are something. I didn't need him to confirm my skill- I'm no egotist, but anyone can see I'm not exactly a newbie to the knife business.

According to law, I have one job, and it is that of a textile worker. According to anyone who pays any attention at all to the antics of eight's people, I have two professions- One as a textile worker, and another as an knife-thrower in illegal weaponry contests.

"Don't worry, sir!" I yell back at him. "I'm not planning on it!"

He lets out a groan I can barely hear, and I move past him and through the door.

My heart begins to pound as I scan the targets and the competitors. Every competition has a unique air about them. Most of them have a friendly, non-competitive aura. The targets are chipped, the competitors conferring and laughing.. It's all very casual, usually.

But today is the Final.

No chiming laughter fills the abyss. Every competitor is tense and ready. There's a very official, serious atmosphere. Nobody is doing this as a hobby.

I take my place and gasp as the starting bell chimes. People begin to flood past me, faces pinched and cold, eyes dark with determination and seriousness. Seriousness has never been my strong suit, so I highly doubt I look as intimidating as them. But there's no harm in looking like the strong competitor I know I am, so I let the muscles in my face contort into a grimace of determination. I step in line behind a target. The line slowly thins, and before I know it, it's my turn.

I tremble slightly, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. I've never been as far as the Finals before. But I force myself to relax and fling the knife towards the target. My muscles flex and burn as the steel blur flies through the air and sinks into the target. My breathing calms. I know, without needing confirmation, that I've made it to the next block. After the people next to me through, a go up towards the knife and pull it out with a grunt, silently wondering how I managed to sink it so deep into the wood. I head to the back, where the finished competitors are, and watch as the rest of the competitors throw. There are some obvious winners, some obvious losers, and some that could go either way. Finally, the last competitor- A skinny, dark woman who more likely then not is going home, grabs her knife and retreats to be with us. The bell chimes again and the intercom crackles. I glance up at the judges.

" _We have all the people who will be progressing written down. Shannon Ronona Terence Pence, Mila Auburn.."_

I wait for my name to be called, first calmly, then slowly more desperately.

" _Mikey Tally, Fae Phelps.. That is all. Over."_

I freeze.

My name wasn't called. _My name wasn't called._

A young woman next to me bursts into tears, and I instinctively reach out and pat her back, rather awkwardly as I'm grieving for the loss of my own pride while helping her with hers.

 _I lost._

The pure, simple truth of it.

 _I lost._

 _How?_

Simple, really. I wasn't good enough.

I won't happen again.

I'll train for it, all the time. Who gives a damn about textiles- my whole life is going to become training to win at this knife-throwing gig.

I will be better.


	12. District Nine Reapings

**A/N: I'M SO TIRED OF WRITING REAPING SCENES AND INTRODUCING PLOT POINTS AND FORESHADOWING AND SETTING UP RELATIONSHIPS AND ALL THAT BUT I HAVE TO AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**

 **So here we have Teryn and Rodrick. Wheeeeeee. Also, warning: Rodrick is, uh, kinda triggering. Watch your step.**

 _Teryn Gardner, District 9 Female, 16 years old_

The hot sun sends rivers of sweat down my back as I work, my callused hands painstakingly pushing the hated plow. I track the movements of the sun with a flicker of anxiety in my belly, knowing that my time measurements may not be all that accurate. I don't want to be in the fields for any longer then I have to.

"Teryn!"

I turn to see my younger brother, Millard, waving energetically in my direction. "Shift's over!" He screeched happily. "It's my turn!" I laugh, abandon the god-forsaken plow, and pelt through the field, whipping scratchy golden stalks aside as my leg muscles flex and pull me forwards. I've always been a fast runner, but running through a wheat field is never enjoyable unless you're leaving it.

I come to a stop beside him, and ruffle his hair in an affectionate matter. " _Why_ you're so interested in plowing the fields, I'll never know." I say playfully. He tosses his hands up, eyes gleaming. "Education! Enlightenment! Real-world skills!" I stick out my tongue. "You're thirteen years old, Millard. You don't really need to learn these 'real-world skills' yet. What time is it, anyways? Your shift can't interfere with the.. Reapings.." I trail off.

I swear I can feel a frigid breeze stir in the air, raising goosebumps on our arms. The playful light in Millard's eyes snuffs out, almost frighteningly fast. "I'm scared, Teryn." He whispers.

Usually, this would be the time where I would tell him to toughen up, to deal with it. I'm your standard antisocial tough-girl with a "heart of gold," (whoa, does _that_ sound cheesy,) but it's impossible for me to be anything but nice on Reaping Day. My own special brand of fear is that when I'm scared, I ooze niceness like some kind of sweet-ass orphan child from that dumb play.

I wrap my arm around him, ignoring my instincts. "It'll be okay, Millard." I whisper to him, despite knowing that if any of the members of our family is reaped, it most certainly won't be okay.

Millard just sighs, his mouth pressed up against the cloth of my shirt.

Will it really be okay, in the end? For all of us? Certainly not. At least one child from the district has to die. But as long as it's not Millard, Fabia, or I..

Then I'll consider it to be okay.

I'm not minimizing the suffering and pain that the families of the doomed ones will go through, or the suffering and pain the doomed ones themselves will experience, because I know it outpaces any pain, both mental and physical, that I could ever possibly feel.

But I don't care about anyone in the world that isn't related to me. Millard, Fabia, Barrick, Mom, Dad, Grandpa Dmitri, hell, even _Graham_ are the people I love most in the world. They're also the only people I love in the world.

If Millard, Fabia, and I are safe, then it will be okay.

Right?

 _Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male, 18 years old_

Red.

Red is the color of the blood that spills onto polished wood or tufty rug or scraggly grass when I finish me work.

Blue.

Blue like the thin arteries beneath paper-thin skin I prepare to rip.

Green.

Green like the eyes of my previous target, bloodshot emerald, rattling in their sockets as their owner played a little game of hide-and-seek with me, desperately dancing through her own house.

 _"Into the woods, it's time to go, I hate to leave, I have to though.."_

What's wrong with me? Why am I so hopelessly empty? Why has the only emotion I've ever had in the last eight years been sadistic happiness? Why am I a hollow basin, only content to be filled up with blood and dying screams? why WHY why WHY why WHY why WhYyY-

 _Get up!_

 _Useless street scum, rat._

 _God-for-nothing little.._

 _Murderer…_

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I crave blood and death. Lust for it. The stink blood fills my nose and I revel in the ankle-deep scarlet pools, the pale, overly stretched skin, the gaping eyes and glazed pupils. How many people have come home to see a demon standing over their loved one, clutching a knife like a lifeline?

They run, nearly all the time. I always catch them.

Only twice have those who came home to see my private therapy dared to attack me. The first was an old man who found me brutally mutilating his wife of forty years. His scream of rage and dying gurgles remain in my mind. The second was a fourteen year old girl, whose parents I had just murdered. Unlike the man, she didn't even have a weapon when she threw herself on me.

The death I wildly sow here in District 9 is painstakingly illegal. The risk of me being caught is too high to continue any longer. So I do what I must. I volunteer for the Hunger Games, and gain 23 new targets.

I lunge up to the stage and Peppercorn Welldinger, our escort (who I regularly dream of decapitating) goes impossibly white at the sight of me. I flash her a toothy smile, easily conveying my message- when I come back and win this thing, I will end you. She squeaks. My counterpart, Teryn something, is a muscular girl with freckles and a tan. She's staring at me with undisguised hatred. I daydream of ripping that tan skin off her bones.

 _Little brat, who does he think he is, tryna mug me? Do you know who I am, pipsqueak? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?_

 _Whoa, calm down Aaron. See how big this kid is? Don't you think he could be a potential recruit? I mean, after he gets beefed up, of course._

 _The little shit tried to steal from me! Are you seeing the same thing I am, Derek? Since when do we exhibit mercy?_

 _I still think he could be a good recruit. We can do a little.. cleansing, first._

RedBlueGreenRedBlueGreenRedBlueGreenRedBlueGreenRedBlueGreen

" _Into the woods…"_

 **A/N: I'm afraid I don't have much experience with writing an insane person. If I get something wrong here, it's just because I don't really know much about insanity.**


	13. District Ten Reapings

**/N: Update: Writing is hard. This has been a PSA. Btw, Blair's mom's folktale doesn't belong to me. It's from a website called Wisdom Commons. Also, I may or may not be sticking random Into The Woods lines in my writing. What can I say? It's a fantastic musical.**

 _Crystaille Alexander, District 10 Female, 16 years old_

"Go, Horse Girl!"

I burst into laughter atop my horse, Gingersnap. "Fighting the powers of evil with her noble steed, Ging-" "No, Lancelot! A true name fit for a knight's ride!" I cast a quick glance at Russen, who's doubled over and laughing his head off, a lone figure silhouetted against a peeling house. "First, I'm a superhero, then I'm a knight! Make up your mind!" I snap. He just goes into convulsions of laughter again. Oh dear.

I slide off the horse, jarring waves of pain slithering up my ankles as I hit the ground with an audible thump. "I've decided the superhero business isn't the right fit for me." I say grandly, throwing out my arms. "I have bigger… BETTER… plans." "Like what? Roping cattle?" Russen says skeptically. I nod solemnly. "An important life skill!" "Whatever you say.." says Russen with a goofy grin. "It's time for Horse Girl to go in, by the way. Grandma requires her baking skills." I frown and cross my arms over my chest. "I have no baking skills. Grandma's looking to shape me into a good housewife again, isn't she?"

Panem is supposed to be a modern society. Grandma hasn't realized that yet. Her head is lodged in the past, a past she hasn't even lived in, a past where all woman amounted to were eye candy, sex dispensers, and servants. I wasn't interested in being controlled, but Grandma didn't seem to realize that.

I sigh.

And march inside.

No point arguing with the most determined person on this planet.

Russen heads to tack up Gingersnap as I storm inside. Midway to the kitchen, I stop and rearrange my features. Cool it, me.

I'm usually a lighthearted person. But if anything can bring out a secret, pissed dominant side of me, it's Grandma. Nevertheless, I don't want to be seen as sulky. She'll never get the hint, anyways.

I'm not a happy-go-lucky sweetheart at heart. My every thought is not a pleasant one. But I act nice, because there's already enough hatred in a place like Panem. Why add more, if I'm capable of being nice?

I head into the kitchen, and greet my smiling Grandma with a twinge of guilt in my gut.

 _Mother said be good,_

 _Father said be nice,_

 _That was always their advice_

 _So be nice, Cinderella,_

 _Good, Cinderella,_

 _Nice good good nice-_

 _-What's the good in being good_

 _If everyone is blind_

 _Always leaving you behind?_

 _Never mind, Cinderella,_

 _Kind Cinderella,_

 _Nice good nice kind good nice-_

 _Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male, 16 years old_

 _8 years previously…_

 _I curled myself into the warm body of my mother, my small, sweaty hands gripping her soft skin as she breathed._

 _"Time for bed." She said calmly, her chest puffing out as she said it, curving my own body slightly further outwards. She shifted, preparing to move and dislodge me from her lap._

 _"Wait!" I protested. "Tell me a story, first."_

 _She chuckled, causing my body to twitch lightly. "Okay, staller." She teased. "What'll it be tonight?"_

 _I paused, undecided. "The Fruit of Heaven?"_

 _"Good choice!" She said lightly, and began._

 _"There was once a woman who had heard of the Fruit of Heaven. She longed for it. She wanted nothing more to eat it, make merry with the seeds of the delightful fruit, and finally be enlightened about the ways of the world. So she searched for a god and found one, Sabar, in a cave far from her home. 'How can I find this fruit, so that I may know all there is to know and make merry?' She asked him. ''You would best be advised to study with me', said Sabar. 'But if you will not do so, you will have to travel resolutely and at times restlessly throughout the world.' She left him and sought another, Arif the Wise One, and then found Hakim, the Sage, then Majzup the Mad, then Alim the Scientist, and many more… … She passed thirty years in her search. Finally, after parting ways with Fenwick the Grand, she found the Tree of Heaven, and from its branches hung the lush Fruit of Heaven. Standing beside the Tree was Sabar, the god. 'Why did you not tell me when we first met that you were the Custodian of the Fruit of Heaven?' she asked him. "Because you would not then have believed me. Besides, the Tree produces fruit only once in thirty years and thirty days.' "_

 _"If she found the tree so easily, why did she study for many years?" I asked softly._

 _"She needed to study so she would find the tree as easily as she did." Said my mother patiently._

 _I yawned. "Oh, okay." I whispered. She tickled the bottom of my chin, inciting a mewl of protest from me. "No more questions?" She asked playfully. "You're usually the curious one!" "I've heard this story before." I mumbled into the cotton of her shirt._

 _"Of course you have." She breathed into my hair, sending a tingle of peace and contentment running down my spine. "You're the story devourer. You swallow them up!" "No!" I cried in protest. "I'm a story COLLECTOR. I lock them away."_

 _"Well said, story collector."_

 **I just realized after writing this that this chapter flows terrrrrrrriblyyyyyyy. I hate it ugh. But I must.. finish.. reapings.. *dies***


	14. District Eleven Reapings

**A/N: blah blah blah, reapings reapings reapings, I JUST WANT TO WRITE THE GAMES OKAY I HAVE ~pLaNs.~ Btw, it may not be obvious, but Finlay was reaped. She didn't volunteer, despite her dreams of escape.**

 _Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female, 14 years old_

My small hands dig deep into the chunks of firm, jagged bark, pulling out loose splinters of wood not strong enough to hang on to the tree. I pull myself up. After two years of working in the fields, my muscles only issue a slight complaint. My feet scrape the rough bark as I scramble, monkey-like, to the top, where the largest and most luscious fruits thrive.

I pause to let the amber rays of 11's latest spectacular sunset wash over me, the honey gold light spilling over my shoulders and creating an aura of sloppy pink and gold around my slim frame. A brief wave of possibilities crashes down atop me, unbalancing me and getting me drunk on potential. _Escape._ A quick dash through the fields, into the blazing sun, and.. what?

I shake away the thoughts, and, frustrated with myself, I scramble up, putting myself in reach of the perfectly rounded fruits, ripe from weeks of blossoming and plumping.

Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me.

Those thoughts have always been in my head, buzzing, burrowing into the crevices of my brain. I can't get rid of them.

It's DNA.

My mother longed for escape just as I do now. However, her desperate need to find something new, to escape the calculated, burning gaze of the Capitol was stronger then mine. She left.

Or at least, she tried to.

She only got five feet from the fence before the peacekeepers were after her, their masks glinting in the harsh sunlight, their heavy boots trampling our carefully grown wheat fields. Her haunting scream as they unloaded their bullets into her head echoes in my mind to this day.

I try and pretend that my handicap, my inability to stay content even though I'm not dead, and Avox, or a tribute, plagues me less then it did my mother. But we both had and have the same lust for life, for escape, for the beyond.

She was just braver.

I dig my nails into the stem of a plump pear, pulling the green, lumpy fruit into my lap. I repeat the action, and pull down another. And another. Until my lap is full of delicious fruit that I've never tasted and never will be able to taste.

A powerful longing rushes through me- a spark of defiance, electrifying my veins. I cast a guilty glance down, confirming that no one can see me, and dig my teeth into the forbidden fruit.

A blast of flavor fills my mouth as the green bits of peel come away in my teeth. I stifle a moan of delight at the delicious taste swirling on my tongue. I devour the fruit, and then stare at the stem.

There must be no evidence that I've broken the law. Eleven is a stern district. I could be lashed until my back becomes a canvas of red- or worse.

I shut my eyes, gather my courage, and eat the stem, bit by bit.

Finally, the odious stem is gone, and so is any proof that I succumbed to my rebellious thoughts.

"You almost done up there?"

A raspy voice floating from beneath the canopy of leaves interrupts my shattered thoughts. "Yeah." I mumble, attempting to project my soft voice. I hear a rustle and spot a flash of golden-brown weave and supple pillows hand-sewn, to better protect fragile fruit. A basket.

I drop the first pear, and it plummets like a stone. The rest come soon after.

After the pairs have been exhausted, I flip my body over and press my body against a not of trunk and branches. My long nails, perfect for climbing steep trees, slip between the grooves and my feet instinctively search out the groves in the bark. I gently slide down, my hands and feet hopping from branch to branch with the elegance of a dancer. I jump and land lightly on the ground, my feet nearly noiseless.

"Long day, huh?" Nunya laughs, his meaty hands wrapped around the golden basket. I nod, staying silent. "Well, it's time to hit the hay. You know how to get home, right?"

We repeat these motions every day. It's always a long day. I always know how to get home.

"Uh-huh." I mumble, and stalk lightly across the grass to the cluster of sloppy concrete buildings.

This isn't a bad life. As long as you don't cause trouble, there's no reason to look outside the borders.

I am content.

 _I am content._

Maybe if I repeat these words for long enough, they'll become true.

 _Richard Sherman, District 11 Male, 15 years old_

"We can't thank you enough, Amara, but it might be too late for Penny.."

What a scene we form. My mother, an angry woman with gray-streaked hair and scratched skin, spoon-feeding an emaciated child with hollow eyes, jabbing ribs, and twisted limbs. A desperately sad young woman, thin and bleak, watching her starving daughter's feeding. A boy- me- with dark skin and a haunted expression, arms clinging, vicelike, to a terrified little boy watching his neighbor and playmate die. All of us silhouetted against an ash-gray home wrecked from the effort of sustaining six children.

"We must be optimists whenever faced with strife." My mother mutters absently, slipping the apricot-coated spoon between Penny's thin lips. Penny moans and convulses on the bed as soon as my mother pulls back. Flecks of spittle and apricot chunks fly from her gaping mouth.

Kiya- Penny's mother- blinks away tears as she watches her baby girl.

My grip on Ben tightens, his squirmy, thankfully healthy body warm on my chest.

I thank my lucky stars that Ben isn't the one on that bed.

I instantly feel guilty. I can't even begin to fathom the pain Kiya's feeling- just because Penny and I aren't related doesn't mean I should view her as less worthy of life. _No_ one should be lying, starving and malnourished, on our pitiful cot.

Nobody is rich in Eleven. But our family is as close as it gets. We have hot water, food every day, and our every spare moment doesn't need to be filled with scrounging for grub or collecting firewood. In the minds of the poor, we live like royalty.

We have extra food, sometimes. An extremely rare occurrence for everyone else in Eleven, but for us, it happens quite often- once every two weeks, perhaps. When we have food to spare, we spend it all on sickly Penny and other children in similar or even worse states then she.

My thoughts shatter as Penny lets out a pitiful moaning sound and begins to kick out, scrawny, pale limbs cutting into the air. Her shadowed eyes are full of pain and too late do we realize what's happening.

Bile explodes from the madly twitching Penny, food at first, but then blood and chunks of organ. Froth bubbles up at her lips. And then, all a sudden, she stops moving.

She lets out a tiny groan, relaxes in the pool of puke and blood, and falls still.

Kiya screams and rushes to her side, thin fingers fluttering over her daughter's tiny body. A haunting wail erupts from her throat, yet again, and she sinks to the floor and cries, pulling Penny's body down with her to hug and cry into.

I let go of Ben then, pelting down the hallway, out the door, and into the cold air. I plop down onto the grass, disbelieving. A cold breeze chills my lungs as Penny's final spasms play over and over in my head on repeat.

"How do we live like this?" I wonder aloud.

But of course, no answer comes.


	15. District Twelve Reapings

**LAST REAPING CHAPTER! THE CLOUDS PART! I CAN SEE THE SUN AGAIN! Ouch, these tributes though. Y'all aren't going to like this. Also, the district 12 male form mysteriously disappeared. I have no idea what happened to it, so his POV won't cover much of him- just a head's up. Can his submitter resend the form, please?**

 _Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female, 13 years old_

 _I want to see the sun._

It's been so long since the sooty clouds parted, since I couldn't play my ribs like a xylophone, since we ate every day. It's been so long since I've really and truly seen cornflower-blue skies. So long since I've seen the sun.

I want to see the sun. I want to feel warmth on my face. I want to raise my trembling hands to its glowing rays and become discorporate. I want to burn.

Why can't I just _burn?_

I stumble off my ragged mat, dust and spit swirling on my tongue. I lap up the moisture greedily, desperate for anything to fill my stomach. My steps are slow, and each one sends a bolt of pain racing up my spine. But I welcome it, bright and electric as it is. It's a break from my throbbing, mortal hunger.

"Alicia."

A soft, gentle hand, covered in dust and soot like everything else in this godforsaken district, tracing a calming pattern on my cheek.

"Garfield." I mumble happily through the pain and dizziness plaguing me.

"Do.. we.. have food today?" He breathes, his tiny face alight with excitement. I pause. Of course we don't. We'll need to choke down a mix of bark and liquor like we do almost every day, and wake up the next day with a creaking stomach and a raging hangover. But I can't tell him this sad fact the way I think it in my head- with savage fury.

"Let me check." I mutter, tottering drunkenly into a ruined excuse for a kitchen. Of course, every cabinet is bone dry, except for one holding a dusty bottle of liquor.

"Sorry, kiddo." I mumble unhappily. "Just Special Juice today." "Oh!" He chirps, though his eyes darken with sadness. "I like Special Juice!"

Jesus Christ, is my eight-year-old brother turning into a drunkard?

Just then, a glorious idea lights up my mind.

 _The leftovers!_

"I'll be right back, Garfield!" I gasp happily, newfound energy flooding through me as I hazard a jog to a crumbling bathroom.

 _There they are._

Two leftover bottles, painful reminders of a different life.

Our mom, Nancy, left Garfield and I two years ago, and with her she took our source of food and care. Our father doesn't give a damn about us. He spoils his money on white wine and lives mostly in a shack far, far away from this crumbling household streaked with ash. I can't blame him for wanting to escape… but I _can_ blame him for going through with it.

Our parents are forgetful people. Our father forgets liquor at the house sometimes, so we have that to fill our bellies. And our mother forgot a bottle of cough syrup and peach lotion.

I grab the bottles and hoist them triumphantly over my head, staggering happily towards Garfield.

"Food!" I exclaim.

Garfield cheers as I open the bottle of the cough syrup and dramatically lower it to my lips. A single droplet falls down my throat and a glorious, sickly sweet flavor burns through me. It takes all of my willpower to hand the bottle over to Garfield, who stares at it as if it's a gift from God himself.

"Drink!" I urge him. Garfield blinks owlishly, astonished, but takes a tentative sip. An expression of rapture spreads across his pale face.

We could worry about food tomorrow. We would feast like kings today… on peach lotion and cough syrup.

 _Henry Wade, District 12 Male, 12 years old_

 _"The world is your oyster."_

I've been collecting quotes, and this one intrigues me a bit. I don't know what an oyster is, but it sounds _exotic-_ and it must be something cool if it embodies the _world._

I know there's stuff beyond Panem. I just don't know what it is. I can dream of gigantic mountains, of amber waves of grain, of twisting, churning rivers and of gilded castles, but I can't know for sure what's there until I get there.

And I will get there.

I have plans, so many of them. I don't now how exactly I'm going to escape District 12, but I'll find a way. I'm already good at reading- I'll probably be good at writing too. I've never actually tried, though… but maybe!

And then I'll be able to sell my books and escape.

First to the Capitol, of course. I've heard the streets are paved with gold there, and they hand out sweets on the street! Not those brittle, flat, cotton-tasting candies that the Mayor's daughter gives out at Christmas, but brightly colored balls that melt in your mouth, sugar mice that really squeak, dazzling lollipops with a swirl of candyfloss-bright pastel in the center..

I'll stay there for a while- eat good food, maybe get a few tattoos, even. Perhaps a pickaxe, to remind me of home. Or a lonely road, to signify that I'm willing to travel long and far.

And then I'll head on a train and move... out. Into the world. Melt into the bright colors of the landscape and become one with nature. Travel like a hick from the sticks, with a piece of wheat between my teeth and a battered old hat, all rough leather and worn creases. I'll sleep under the stars every night.

I can't wait for my journey to begin.

But before it can, I'll have to suffer through 8 years of Reapings.

I shuffle into the twelve males section, clutching my worn book to my chest like a rabbit ready to spook away. I'm not brave enough to wander into the woods, but I've seen pictures of rabbit's in my storybook- all white and fluffy with twitching noses and a tendency to scamper away, chirruping at your back.

Poisonous fear lances through me. It's my first year. I've only two slips in there- one for me, and one for tesserae- but the chance is there. It's always there.

I watch, trembling with fear, as the dark days video plays onscreen. Shots of bleeding soldiers, screaming children, and worn-torn towns flash onscreen as I shrink closer and closer into myself. Finally, it's over. I feel a note of relief before I realize what comes next.

The speech is read. The slips are pulled. A girl's name.

"Alicia Marleen!"

A tiny girl from the thirteen-year-olds section stumbles out, scarecrow-skinny, so obviously pained by every step. She faints before she can reach the stage, and peacekeepers swarm her fragile frame like bees, carrying her up to the stage and dropping her there with a plop. I shiver.

"And now for the male.."

…

 _please._

 _please._

 _to anyone out there_

 _to anyone listening_

 ** _please._**

 _no bribes_

 _no trades or promises_

 _just_

 _please._

"Henry Wade!"

 _I can't die. I haven't lived yet._


	16. Train Rides, Part One: Districts 1-6

**Woot! Let's go! Train rides begin now, so all aboard! * cheesy whistle noise * My longest chapter to date!**

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female, 18 years old_

I sit atop the plush velvet loveseat, sipping bubble tea and accenting my fake tears with loud sniffs. Colorful bursts of lemon and orange explode on my tongue as Kai, Silky, and Mason talk amongst themselves, occasionally sending angry, confused glances my way.

Every time three laser-focused pairs of eyes zero in on me, I make sure to flood the tearducts and sob especially loud, my slender frame trembling atop luxury, that, despite me living in the _luxury_ district, have never imagined.

"Strategy for your interview?" Kai barks at Mason. The latter rolls his eyes and slumps, having grown increasingly bored throughout the entire ordeal. "It doesn't matter, does it?" He says lazily. "They'll love me anyways-"

Kai stands up and slaps Mason on the face.

Mason flies up from his couch, spitting venom at his coldly disapproving mentor, creating a perfect picture of fire and ice.

"You're overconfident. Humiliation will settle your temper." Kai snarls, his voice cold and controlled with a hint of savagery in it's depths. He grabs Mason by the ear and flings him violently to the ground. The furious boy hits the ground with an earth-shattering _THUNK._ Kai raises his foot to kick the fool, but obviously thinks better of it. His face darkens and he pulls Mason up roughly and without warning. Mason sputters, disbelieving.

"I'm not allowed to harm you, but no one will know if no bruises form. Luckily for you, I've a better idea then showing off my pressure point training." With those words, Kai lashes out. His slim, battered fingers catch on the belt of Mason's jeans and riiiiiips with extreme force. His pants fall into a bundle of acid-washed navy, leaving him, red-faced, in boxers.

I can't help it. I laugh.

 _Rules for surviving the Hunger Games, by Chablis Brochetto:_

 _1\. Don't lose your cool around your mentor. Looking at you, Mason._

 _Taurus Black, District 2 Male, 18 years old_

They're all fools. Who are they to deny me anything, anything at all? They are bugs at best, and I am a god at worst. I will _never_ let them forgot how high above them I am. But I'm sure they already know. They just prefer to live in denial. They should get used to it. I will become their twisted reality, their demons, their night terrors. I will haunt their dreams, and I'll be there when they wake up screaming. I will rip and tear and slaughter and they will cower at my feet, scrounging for scraps in pools of blood.

They stand against me still, despite knowing this.

Venie truly defines what it is to be a moron. The girl thinks herself to be so high-and-mighty- I wonder if she'll still believe herself to be superior to me when I slit her warbling throat. Why someone so obviously struggling with dietary problems would volunteer for a glorious deathmatch is beyond me.

Ares has the name of a true warrior, and yet he is a blustering fool. He won his games through brute strength, and in the years since his victory, has regrettably let that strength go to seed. The fat idiot still believes himself to be a prime warrior, however. He'll learn his place when I take him on after my victory. I wonder if I'd be able to cut that fat off him and burn it like blubber. He's certainly the _size_ of a whale.

Pompone is more tolerable then Venie and Ares, thankfully, but she is still quite near insufferable. She labels herself a "fighter," but her knifework is deplorable at best.

I surround myself with utter morons.

What a thing for a king to suffer!

Wait- make that an _emperor._

 _Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male, 18 years old._

"Velvet." I mutter as I touch the crushed, smooth curtains lightly, still numb with shock. "Extravagant, isn't it?"

Pipper laughs lightly. "This train belongs to the Capitol, sweetheart! Sweet heaven, we're all extravagant. Extravagance is my middle name!"

I flash her a narrow gaze, my eyes slits. "Was that a joke, or are you serious?"

Pipper blinks up at me, confused.

"Why would I _not_ be serious?! I'm _always_ serious!"

Futura groans and slumps forwards, her head in her hands. Wyre rubs his temples tiredly, his graying, steel-like hair flopping limply over olive skin. Both of them look extremely worn out, and I sort of feel like joining their Moaning-Groaning-And Wanting To Be Anywhere But Here-Club. But I keep a strained smile on my face, for the sake of appearances.

"So." Says Roxy flatly. "Can the two of you do anything other then grunt and comment on fabric, or did I get two Bloodbaths this year?" Futura snaps to attention.

"I can make decisions based on logic and not let my emotions infect those decisions-" She starts, but Roxy interrupts her. "Didn't seem like that during the Reapings, sugar. Don't tell me you volunteered because you thought you could do it. I don't like liars."

"A momentary lapse in judgement." Says Futura coldly, and Roxy's eyebrow quirks up, impressed despite her cold, harsh words at Futura's cool. "And, on the contrary, I fully believe I can do it. It shouldn't be hard for me to gain allies, and I know a lot about coding, machinery, and discipline. I'm numb to extreme violence- I've seen a lot of shit in my life. How's that sound?"

Roxy nods slowly and turns to me.

"And you?"

"Err…" I mumble. "I can code, and-"

"-need to gain some self-confidence and not mumble. Nasty habit." Roxy spits bleakly, and stomps out the carriage.

"Well, that was rude." Pipper frowns.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female, 18 years old_

"How do I appeal to sponsors?" I ask politely, hoping I'm hiding my awe at being in the presences of _Crescent Wade_ and _Alexier Calterry._ The two are legends, and even being in the same room as them makes my stomach lurch in a very uncomfortable fashion. Alexier is _really_ cute, too, so that doesn't help.

Crescent pauses, her slim fingernail tapping at her puffed lips. "I went for the seductress angle." She frowns and examines me with critical eyes, icy blue eyes zeroing on every scar, each flaw. "But something tells me that won't work for you…"

I flinch, trying not to take offense at the offhand comment, but the words sting all the same. It's shameful to know that the words of a person I've never met until today seem to mean more to me then the criticism of my _mother._

"You're powerful." Alexier says slowly. "A good leader-"

"HA!" Mason interrupts, a horrifyingly smug look on his face. "Serena, a good leader? Please. We all know it's _me_ who'll be leading this Career pack."

Silence.

"Are you sure about that?" I whisper, my words ghostly and strange upon my own lips.

"Positive." He boasts. "You couldn't lead a cat to it's supper."

"Well then." I say with a flicker of a smile. "Let's fight for it."

Crescent squeals and claps her hands together. Alexier opens his mouth to protest, but a venomous glare from Crescent makes him shut his trap instantly. Mason shrugs. "Sure, why not?" He says lazily. "Girlie, you don't have a chance against me." I ignore his smug boasts and turn to Crescent. "Are there any weapons in the train?" "In one of the storage rooms, I believe." She says with an exaggerated wink and pivots on her foot.

She returns with two slim swords. I take one, and Maximus grabs the other. Immediately, I note the flaws in his grip and his lazy stance. My lip curls. This will be _all_ too easy.

Maximus lunges first- a beginners mistake. He swings the blade down in a quick arc but I parry the swing with almost his laziness. He looks amazed. I twist away from him and flick the sword towards the handle. The clink startles him, and the sword tumbles from his already-loose fingers. In one sweeping motion, I've won a duel that took longer to set up then it lasted. Maximus gapes at me, his eyes huge with disbelief. He sputters. "What- No- you dirty cheat!" "Do you really expect anyone to fight fair in the Hunger Games, Maximus?"

Crescent claps.

 _Nyso Torrent, District 5 Male, 15 years old_

My throat's as dry as a bone, and Hesiodia won't stop _talking._ Her annoyingly nasal voice just carries on and on and _on._ Finally, I say something, just to break the parade of complaints and screeches. "Would there happen to be any water on the train?" I ask the people I despise politely as I can manage.

Togo tips his head back and laughs maniacally. " _WATER?!_ My dear boy, we have every drink in the world! Apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, Shirley Temples, firebranders, kid's cocktails, _real_ cocktails..."

My eyes bug out and my mouth forms a perfect o. Before I can stammer out a single word of disbelief, Togo is running energetically for the well-polished kitchen, looking far more suited to be there then my grimy self could ever be. He pulls a dusty crystal flute from a cabinet and practically dances over to a spigot in the wall with a flat screen next to it. He taps it wildly, and suddenly a strange mix of burgundy and amber is flowing from the tap and shifting and swirling inside the glass, raising a frothing sugar cloud.

Togo bounds exuberantly over to me, the curls of liquid sloshing in the glass, colors I've never seen before created by the stirring. He shoves it roughly into my hands and I stare, uncomprehending, at it.

"Go on, drink it!" He urges. "I'll never understand you District folk. Have you _ever_ had a mixed pomegranate-and-orange drink? Savages!"

I stare into the cup.

"DRINK IT!"

Anger superheats me. I'm not sure why, exactly, but fury boils through me as the pompous fool urges me to drink.

"I don't trust anything the Capitol makes." I spit.

I fling the flute on the ground. It shatters into a million dripping shards, reminding me forcefully of my fate.

Togo sighs reproachfully and flashes me a gentle, wounded look.

He cleans it up.

 _Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female, 15 years old_

I explore the train with an eagerness that surprises even me. I'm far more calm then I thought I'd be in this situation, as if I'm expecting someone to explode out of the closet and tell me it's just a joke. But it isn't, of course. This is my reality now. My nerves simply haven't caught up with that fact.

I stumble down a long hallways strewn with velvet tapestries. I stop to stare at a series of them, all seemingly interconnected.

I examine the first one, and a story begins to unfold.

Two woven gold figures stand next to each other, holding hands, their faces bright with rapture at the chance to represent their district. Trees, a golden sun, and several solemn faces surround them.

In the next tapestry, the two are in a chariot, still holding hands, and waving at the audience with their free hands. Swarms of cheering golden weave press towards them, desperate to touch the two glorious representatives.

In the next, they're holding hands again (it's seemingly a theme,) and traveling dreamily from station to station at the training center, watching, unworried, as several woven bodies spar and learn.

In the second-to-last, they stand on their platforms in a sprawling forest arena, reaching for each other desperately as the golden cornucopia gleams in the woven sunlight.

And in the final tapestry, they're sprawled across the ground at the foot of the cornucopia, gleaming golden blood spilling from their crumpled figures.

They're holding hands.

I shiver involuntarily as I see the title of the gruesome tapestries.

 _Love and War._

"Creepy, aren't they?" Says a voice from behind me.

I spin around to see my haunted district partner, his sad eyes like open graves, staring up at the bittersweet works of art.

"My brother died two years ago yesterday." He says bluntly. My stomach heaves. "I-I'm sorry." I say hesitantly. "How funny would it be…" He whispers, gaunt, "If I died a week after my brother did?" "I don't think it's funny at all!" I exclaim, angry at this sallow-eyed boy, _Preston,_ for giving up so easily.

He blinks owlishly at me. "Glad to know someone doesn't find this amusing." He mutters. "Or escort certainly does." I sigh. "What and airhead." He nods solemnly, then looks away, suddenly shy.

"I came to ask…" he mumbles, "If you… err, if you might consider being my ally?"

I stare at him. Then at the tapestries. Then at him again.

Those tapestries are _not_ an omen, I tell myself sternly.

"Sure."


	17. Train Rides, Part Two: Districts 7-12

**A/N: You have** ** _NO IDEA_** **how hard it was for me to type "What the hell is this, some kind of episode?" Instead of "What the hell is this, some kind of tube?" Also, the pick-up lines aren't mine.**

 _Gareth Barkely, District 7 Male, 16 years old_

I take my time exploring the train, investigating each nook and cranny with a perverse interest that makes my escort cough and not-so-silently sputter that perhaps I should _sit down_ and _stop examining Capitol property as if your life depends on the placing of each and every bolt._ Except he doesn't say that part aloud.

I can't help it, really. Mechanics, things made of wood, and tiny flaws interest me. Some rebellious spirit in my head that enough examining equals discovering a way out. And, like a fool, I feed the beast.

I run my fingers absentmindedly over every scratch, notch and groove in the enclosing wooden walls, my long nails catching on each and every rivet. Endless doors of polished white wood stretch out, and the scratchy blue carpet seems to extend for miles. Suddenly overcome with emotion and fear, I keel over, slippery fingers skidding off the walls.

"I don't trust you."

I spin around, pressing my back against the wall. Heavenly Aquarius is standing five feet away from me, anxiously running her thin fingers through her newly-brushed brown hair.

"Thought you should make that clear, eh?" I spit out wryly. "It's the Hunger Games, trust's usually a bad thing. You've got the right idea. I don't trust you either, come to think of it."

"Not because of the _HUNGER GAMES!"_ She wails like a banshee, her long nails desperately clawing at her silky mane.

From zero to hundred in one second. Well.

"Why not, then?" I ask her, genuinely confused despite my sarcasm and biting remarks earlier on.

"You're friends with him." She says gravely. "You joke with him, you pass notes to him, you _eat lunch WITH HIM-"_

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU-"

" _ASPER LEECH!"_ She screeches.

"The mayor's son? I suppose I am friendly with him, he's a pretty nice guy-"

"NICE GUY?! _NICE GUY?!"_

Her nails shift from ripping out clumps of her now-twisted hair to raking themselves down her olive, hollow cheeks. I swear loudly.

"Don't _do_ that!" I yell, wrenching her clawed, bloody hands from her face and forcing them by her sides. "What the hell is this, some kind of episode?!

She stops dead, ivy-green eyes wide and frightened, panicked rabbit-style. Her chest heaves wildly as she gasps for breath.

"You're not like him." She whispers, astonished. "You st-stopped me from hurting myself… I-I didn't think the test would work, not in a million years… not for _you…_ Oh, hell!"

And then she spins around wildly and darts from the room, leaving me to yell curses and questions at her retreating back.

 _Cajsa Varis, District Eight female, 16 years old_

"Your lips look so lonely… would they like to meet mine?"

"You must be one hell of a thief, because you stole my heart from across the room!"

"You're-"

"If this is a pick-up line about my ass, then stuff it up yours!" I snap, wrapping my arms around my slim frame. Ajax wiggles his eyebrows and opens his mouth-

"Shut it!" I hiss. Ajax frowns. "Thought a good make-up session would cheer you up. Usually, that's what pick-up lines lead to." I grimace and stick out my tongue. "Not when they could be served in my Mac & Cheese!" Ajax pouts. "You could give me some consolation points for trying-"

"Try them on me! They just might work." Our escort, Malfi Potpourri, purrs, sliding into the lounge in her typical slinky dress, her ash gray skin looking impossibly sickly under the neon lighting. Ajax grimaces. "No thanks!" He says, a little too loudly, as if she might not hear him. Malfi pouts and slides a thin gray hand up Ajax's side, the latter looking quite terrified. I desperately stifle a laugh. "Well, if you change your mind…" She croons. "I'll be in the kitchen."

The two of us burst into giggles at the same time, hers growing fainter as she heads down the hallways, mine growing only stronger as she leaves, until I'm practically howling. "Ha-ha, very funny, the flirter gets molested." Says Ajax grumpily. "Age of consent in Panem is 16!" I say grandly, sliding into a heap off the velvet couch. "And don't overreact, it isn't good for your complexion." "I didn't hear any consent being given!" Hisses Ajax, only causing my fits of laughter to grow.

"What's so funny?"

Yax Tulle, our infamous mentor, steps into the room, bringing with him a aura of coldness that snuffs all emotion.

"Nothing, sir." I say quietly. Ajax nods assent.

Yax Tulle. Brutal volunteer. Murderer. Torture enthusiast. Career. (Albeit temporarily.) His presence is about as welcome as a heart attack, but nobody dares deny him.

They call him the Boogeyman…

 _Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male, 18 years old._

 _Blood runs red on the ground, but blue in the veins…_

Teryn is staring. Silly girl. Staring at the Grim Reaper is never advisable.

 _One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…_

Cecily and Ray address her, and her only. It is as if I do not exist. I dream on while they babble.

 _Sinner or saint, little boy, it doesn't matter. We'll catch ya, and we'll break ya._

There are no words for the fury in my soul at their meaningless chatter and nervous, skittering glances towards my stone-cold face. I temper the rage, reminding myself the Reaper must be silent as the grave. Teryn believes she can use a scythe. What fools they make! The scythe is a Reaper's weapon. Not a weapon belonging to a twittering bloodbath with a venomous stare.

 _Screaming. Who is screaming? Whose desperate howls and pleas for remorse are splitting the frigid air?_

 _Crying. Who is crying? Who is sobbing with fear and pain, cold salt tracks ripping there way down which freezing face?_

 _Bleeding. Who is bleeding? Who's dripping scarlet and ruby, splashing bloody paint across sharp stone._

 _The answer…_

I've taken tests before. I disregard them. Their tests do not dent me, do not dare to flaw my black, steel soul…

 _Teryn Gardner is the answer. To life, the universe, and everything. When I kill her, my job is to be complete._

I inform her that she is the answer.

She does not take it well.

 _Blair Harcourt, District Ten Male, 16 years old_

 _The ice queen sat in wait, her frigid lips pursed and snowy curls sprawled across her castle of mirrors and glass. Her fingers stroked her arrows, first lovingly, then, when the hours passed, tensely. Finally, she snatched her bow and stood. Her servant-boy skittered across the ground like a frightened rabbit and scrambled desperately to kiss the hem of her frost-and-gossamer gown. She sent him sprawling with a single kick._

 _"Where is he?" She whispered, her voice glacier-like and spun with malignant, cold fury._

 _"I- I do not know, my lady! He must be here soon-"_

"What're you reading?"

Crystaille's curious voice snaps me out of my book obsession. My head shoots up from the well-loved cream pages littered with rips and smudges.

"The Ice-Queen and the Mouse." I mutter, clutching the burgundy book to my chest. "Sounds cool!" She chirps. "I've never had much time for reading, as I've had animals to tend too, but it sounds interesting!"

"Right. Yup. Uh, interesting. R-Really interesting, yeah. Good book." I mutter dumbly, hanging onto the book like a lifeline and hoping desperately that she'll stop talking so I can submerge myself into a world without the Hunger Games.

But she doesn't get the hint.

"So, what's your home life like?" She asks curiously. I stifle a groan.

"Fine." I say quietly, being drawn into the conversation against my conscious will. I'm normally a friendly person, and I suppose that attitude is causing me to gain interest in talking in my very friendly and _very_ pretty district partner, but at the moment, I'm fighting against it, due to the fact that I've just been reaped for a death match, and I'd like to be in a place without conflict- or, at least, without Panem conflict.

"My mom and dad are both really nice people, and there's virtually no conflict in our household." I say quietly, as Crystaille listens attentively.

"I'm generally social with everyone, I suppose, but my closest friend was Carver Oxley. We were close friends when we were small, but we've sort of grown apart and have different interests. He's still really nice, though, we just don't… fit. What about you? What's your life like?"

"Oh!" She says. "Uh, I… ride horses. And, um, milk cows. And kill chickens. I was covered in chicken blood during the Reapings- that was embarrassing! Most of my family is nice… but my grandma… well, lets just say she's a little old-fashioned."

I nod. She hops up and announces she's off to look for our mentors and wrestle a bottle of morphine from between them. She exits the room, leaving me and my book alone.

 _The Ice Queen nodded, her face taut with the exhaustion of planning the foolish boy's death…_

I shiver and tear my gaze from the page. Perhaps I shouldn't be reading this after all.

I stand up and follow Crystaille out.

 _Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female, 16 years old_

My fingers twitch and dance in my lap, the way they do when I'm picking fruit or tree-climbing. Wisika's hitting back a bottle of amber liquid and giving me absolutely no advice at all.

Apparently I was misinformed as to what mentors do.

Finally I sigh and clasp my hands together. "Aren't you supposed to, uh, test my skills, get to know me?" I blurt out. Wisika shoots me a cold glare. "No point." She says flatly. "You're just gonna die."

The words feel like a slap to the face.

"How would you know that?" I say stiffly, attempting not to betray the sting I felt on my cheek when she spat out her words. "You have no idea what I can do, so…"

"Doesn't matter if you're the smartest, strongest, or prettiest person in the entirety of effing Eleven. You'll die anyways. Let me tell you a little story..." I lean forwards and ball my hands obediently in my lap.

"A few years back, I had a tribute a lot like you. The 141st games, if I'm not mistaken. She was… averagely pretty, not very strong in all honesty, but whip smart." My cheeks flame at the indirect compliment. "She could guess the actions of her competitors, she could play to the crowd, and all that bull. But mostly? She was determined to stay alive. I thought I had a winner on my hands.

She got fifth place. Stabbed fifteen times in the gut from the little misery from two, Callfine."

My stomach's lurching in an extremely uncomfortable fashion. But still, I listen.

"Callfine won, as I'm sure you know. I see her at Victor's gatherings sometimes. Takes all my self-control to stop myself from ripping her little throat out, or stabbing her fifteen times like she stabbed Apple."

She takes a swig from the bottle and continues.

"A few years before that, 135th games, I got a boy named John Henry, like from the folktales. His name made sense. He was as huge as an ox, with hands as big as dustbins and muscles that looked like apples strung across his arm. Physical wonder, he was.

But he wasn't just brute strength. Sure, he might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was such a sweet boy, always full of smiles and thank-you-ma'ams. It would bring him favor with the audience. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had a victor here."

Her fingers slowly grow white as she talks, clutching the bottle like a lifeline.

"The Careers asked him to join them, but he said naw. Because of that, and his size, they all ganged up on him at the Bloodbath and made his death the first of the Games."

She lets out a little sigh and sips again.

"The 129th games brought me Persephone. She was… different. Skin like nut-brown silk, glowing amber eyes, glossy curls, curves in all the right places. The sponsors went bananas. _I_ went bananas. She was prettier then the model from one. The _model!_ And she was cunning, too- knew just how to play to the crowd, with skimpy velvet dress and hair flips and saucy winks towards an audience she truly despised. I thought I had a winner with her, as well.

The model from one was a vengeful bitch. Tracked down Persephone on day three. Instead of making it nice and quick with those knives she was so skilled with, she grabbed a rock and sloughed the skin off Persephone's face, all the while screaming that she, Tory, was the prettiest now. It took Persephone half and hour to die. One long, agonizing half an hour."

She sets the cup down and stares gravely at me. I gulp.

"So, you see, it doesn't matter how smart or strong or pretty you are. You'll die. Because everyone always does."

And then she stands up and leaves the room.

 _Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female, 13 years old_

I can't stop staring at the glory all around me, the pure velvet luxury. Neither can Henry- the two of us simply observe our surroundings with wide O's for mouths and don't say a single word to eachother, preferring to unwind on a slippery couch made from cloth so light and floaty it feels like pure air.

Amara steps in, talking lightly to our escort. She stops dead when she sees us, and tears suddenly spring to life in her wide gray eyes.

" _Shit."_ She swears. Henry giggles.

"Could you draw up two baths, please?" She asks the escort calmly.

A half an hour later, I'm lying in a pool of warm water, with rose petals floating on the top and lotion slathered all over my skin. It's the best feeling in the world, and I have no idea how to describe the warmth surrounding me.

I pull myself deeper into the water, floating like a chick in a shell. The warm hand of silky liquid surrounds me, and I lazily flip over in the water, sleepily blinking my eyes.

Soap and lotion stings at my raw eyes, but I keep them open anyways, staring blankly at the slippery petals dancing alongside the bottom, little red dresses in a waltz.

My palms hit the bottom of the tub with an audible thump and my chest begins to burn from lack of air. I open my lips and taste the sugary, flowered water with a wet tongue.

I push myself from the tub and cold air presses against my skin. I suck in a few desperate breaths and stumble out of the bathtub, grabbing a fluffy towel and wrapping it around my malnourished frame, letting the towel absorb the lotion and water dripping off my skin.

I spot the bottle of peach lotion and smile.


	18. Parade Prep

**A/N: I haaaaaate stupid boring parade chapters, but this is sadly needed. It'll be short though, because nobody gives a shit about parade prep. I think I had inspiration for this at one point, but then I read The Queen of Zombie Hearts and I just… Kat. I could go on and on about the tragic and sudden death of Kat Parker but this isn't the place to do so. I just… Mad Dog, why?!**

 _Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female, 17 years old_

I scrunch myself into the smallest ball possible, contorting my body atop the marble floor, shaking like a leaf.

I know what they're going to try to do.

They'll try and rip the clothes off my body, force me down, scrub me, cleanse me, rub my body until it shines like the mirrors surrounding me on all sides.

But I know that a mind can wander into dark, twisted places when eyes fall open a female body. I've been ensnared in that dark place once before, clawing at demons, trapped in a personal hell I didn't know every woman, including me, feared, burning alive and breathing in the ash and smoke.

I'm never going back there. Never, _ever._

That's why the key word is _try._

I unfurl myself, my twisted tangle of limbs breaking apart. I scramble shakily to my feet, riding the waves of panic.

 _Don't let it control you. The adrenaline will kick in, and you can fight. You can escape the burning. You can dodge the flames. You were ten the first time. You're older now. You can escape hell._

My father's disconnected voice buzzes into my brain. For once, I'm happy that he's infecting my thoughts, making himself present to tell me that-

 _Everything is a weapon._

I run over to a mirror-encrusted dresser, refusing to give my reflection a second chance. Rape isn't about appearance or sex appeal. It's about violence. Control.

And the Capitol is nothing if not controlling.

I rip the delicate crystalline lamp from the socket, the cord whipping around to slap me in the side. I don't get a chance to raise it before the door shudders open.

Surprise! They're not what I expected, not at all. They're so heavily made up they look like dolls, or possibly pastries frosted to the extreme. A flabby, purple-dyed hand strays to the hem of my shirt and I explode into action.

I swing the lamp through the air, hearing the wind whistle. With a heavy crack, the lamp slams into purple-man's skull, and he falls like a puppet with no strings to propel him. A Capitolite with no President to worship or Games to watch.

One of his partners, a skinny woman with shockingly pink eyes and hair that looks like a three-tier-cake grabs my arm. I shove her away desperately, my skin crawling at her touch. A man with fire truck-red hair that falls to his back pushes me roughly to the wall and I scream and thrash, my body twisting and turning wildly, my soul burning away and leaving behind nothing but savagery, wildness, feral instinct.

I feel the sharp pressure of a needle against my arm, and pure peace bleeds into my veins, like…

I…

I…

I don't know anymore. What am I doing? There are so little colors and so many mirrors, glowing with an ethereal, spectral light, sending my reflection bouncing into oblivion like a single burning star.

Fabric shifts and rustles as the pretty ones let me slide to the floor. There's only bright silver now, reflecting, reflecting, reflecting _me._ I dazzle. I shine. There's something so beautiful about those mirrors. They can't burn or crack or die. They're indestructible.

I wish I didn't break the way they refuse to.

The sloppy, smiley grin twists on my face as the world begins to pulse and throb with sickly sweet sugar, baring garish smiles into my soul. Teeth gleam and I scream for the predator to leave, go. I want colors, but not red. Never red. There's something about scarlet…

Fumes dazzle me, bake me alive. I burn sage here, on the floor. I'm a pretty little star, twirling and singing like a… a what?

There's a song in my mind and it slithers on my lips. I try and sing it. It's garbled, though. My mind isn't working right…

I sit back and let the happy take me. I'm not in hell…

Anymore.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male, 18 years old._

I stand stiffly, letting my prep team dab at my skin and paint swirling, green-blue patterns on my copper chest and face. I get the impression that there's a sea churning and biting at me. I imagine that's the idea.

I need to get my act together.

I let that stupid girl beat me. At the rate I'm going, I'll die in the bloodbath. I can't be provoked again. Oh, I'll have my revenge on Serena, all right, but until that happens? I'll need to be as cool and uncaring as the waves lapping at my chest.

"Alright!" Shrieks on of the three, a short woman with metallic gold skin and a grating squeak. I think her name is Vanille, but in all honesty? I really couldn't care less. Only sheer force of will is keeping me here as her fat fingers roam all over her body, and I don't think I could take it if she started spouting details about her pathetic life.

"We're done!" She trills wildly. "Oh, Egore is going to _love_ what we've done with this body paint, it fit his idea perfectly! Sure, we used a bit more blue then what he asked for, but it'll be spectacular no matter what!"

She winks at me, wagging her stubby fingers in my direction. I gag. Herr partners-in-crime and herself bustle out of the room, talking excitedly amongst themselves about the Games, the parade, and the tributes.

The door swings open and the rustling of fabric fills my ears as a tall man with slitted violet eyes sweeps in, his fingers trailing disinterestedly over the dresser. "So, this is my canvas." He mutters, his voice low and barely discernable. "Could be better, but…"

I want to spit at him, to tell him he'd never find a specimen as wonderful as me- and then it hits me. This is my test! To see whether or not I'm capable of freezing over.

I take a deep breath and stifle my temper, imagining dousing angry flames in icy water, smothering sparks of rage. I exhale, my voice fluctuating like I'm thirteen again.

"I apologize, sir." I say politely. "I'm no model."

He nods curtly. "Apology accepted."

In my head, I pump my fist.

And also maim him a little.

 _Richard Sherman, District 11 Male, 16 years old_

"Tributes, the Chariot rides are in _thirty_ minutes. Repeat, the Chariot rides are in _thirty_ minutes."

"Does he think we'll forgot?" I mutter to Finlay, who laughs lightly. "He wants to sound important, I guess." She teases. I snort. "He already _is_ important- he's Adakyo Blake, the announcer for the Hunger Games." "I noticed." Says Finlay flatly.

I look down and tug at my parade outfit with a frown. I'm an apple. Not a suit patterned with apples like the stylist did last year… but an actual _apple._ Round and red and plastic. I feel like a freaking penguin, waddling around in this sad excuse for a costume.

Finlay got off lucky. Her outfit's a ruffled white dress, tinged with sunrise-pink and edged with pastel lace. An apple blossom. The costume's probably agonizingly scratchy and it quite awkwardly resembles a pillow, but at least she can _walk._

I survey the other tributes- or at least the ones in my line of vision.

The pair from three are wearing robot costumes that makes my heart ache for them. They're almost as bad as me. The harsh lights of the small holding room we're standing in light up their costumes, illuminating them- but it doesn't do anything to approve to their appearance, only highlighting flaws with the costume.

The two from five are standing right next to us, wearing outfits that are… actually not terrible! Well, the girl's outfit isn't. The extremely unhappy looking boy is wearing a lumpy gray outfit I think is supposed to resemble a turbine, which is spitting soot in his face. The girl, however, is looking extremely smug in her dress, a dove-gray slip with her name- Hesiodia- scrawled on it in neon paint, glowing sun-bright, electric almost. Her smug smile slides off her face like sap, though, when the boy begins to argue with her about something-or-other. It only takes a second for them to begin flat-out screaming. I divert my attention from them, embarrassed.

The pair from twelve are another odd couple, who seem awkwardly _un_ suited to each other. The boy is dressed as a lumberjack, holding a foam axe in his callused hand, and is staring in amazement at his district partner, an ethereal wood sprite wearing a headdress of laurel leaves and an olive-green gown. She's swaying on the balls of her feet, a slow smile lighting up her face, her eyes unfocused and dreamy. She looks high, but she can't be… right?

No. She definitely is. I know the signs. But how?

I turn my attention away from the enigma that is the 7 girl and check out the twelve tributes, who are a little ways behind Finlay and I.

My heart aches for them.

The two of them are tiny- both twelve, if I have to hazard a guess. What's more, they're both extremely malnourished, their ribs jutting out of their concave stomachs, sharp, withered bones practically eating up what little meat they have. And yet they aren't crushed. They're talking excitedly about their outfits- The boy's a coal miner, as per usual, but the girl's wearing a creamy yellow dress adorned with feathers that I can't comprehend. Finlay lets out a soft "oh!" of sadness at the sight of them and I latch onto her hand.

How can they do this?

How is anyone capable of such cruelty?

And I'm not just talking about the Games.

They've been left to starve their whole lives. Nobody gives a damn about them, just because of where they were born.

I look at them… and I see Penny.

 **A/N: UUUUUUGH I HATE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH KILL ME. In all seriousness, you write a chapter, it looks so long in google docs, and then when you post it... it looks like a post-it note D:**


	19. Parade

**A/N: Two updates in a row. I spoil y'all too much.**

 _Adakyo Blake, Games Announcer_

I slide into the booth like a phantom, my polished leather shoes noiseless on the crushed velvet. I slide up behind my wife, Seraph, and kiss her gently on the head. She startles, leaping upwards like a spooked rabbit.

"Frightened of me?" I tease her lightly. She sighs. "Cut the crap, Adakyo. Let's just get this over with." I hiss slightly but spin on my foot and plop down on the announcers chair with a surly grin.

Seraph notices. "Don't sulk. It's _hardly_ attractive, darling." I roll my eyes and open my mouth to respond when I hear the swell of twisting, near tangible music and voice. Seraph bounces on her chair, our argument forgotten, or at least put on hold. Trumpets flourish. The scent of thousands of blooming flowers reaches my noise, and I cringe from the sugary bouquet of smell.

"The parade!" Seraph hisses, smacking me on the arm. I cringe away from her. "Oh, right! Sorry, dearest!" I gasp, and then flush with pink embarrassment as I realize- in my haste to apologize to my angry and very pregnant wife, I've spluttered into the microphone and the whole of Panem is having a good laugh at my expense.

I shake my head as if I'm getting rid of a bothersome flea and begin to speak, my cheeks twin points of red flame, my angry wife shaking her fist behind me.

"From District One we have… ah. Well, this is a bit of a letdown. It appears Iko- we all know Iko, don't we?- has decided to recycle last year's outfit's for Mason and Chablis. The two are adorned in, sparkling gold body paint, marble-esque togas, and fashionable -even if reused- feathery wings dotted with elegant gems in all different colors. It's tasteful, yes, but there's _literally_ nothing original about it. Well, _I-know,_ that _I-ko,_ (heh heh) is in her final stretch. She must be losing her touch. Mason realizes it too, and is standing stiff and angry with a face that shouts 'stone' to me. Chablis seems to be enjoying it, though- flirting with the audience, and gracefully stealing the roses meant for the far more adequate Mason."

District One and their unimpressive brood turn the corner, to be replaced by District Two's sleek steel chariot. I examine the tributes and begin to speak, riding the waves of excitement that the spectators are emitting.

"District Two's done something new- well, not new _exactly,_ but something that hasn't been done in a while. Peacekeeper outfits! We are _loving_ this sleek suits and pseudo-guns- or at least I _hope_ they're pseudo-guns. Venie doesn't seem to be enjoying her costume as much as we are, however- she keeps tugging at the suit to no avail, her fingers slipping off the non-absorbent plastic. She's clearly unhappy with how curve-hugging and revealing the suit is. What about we give her some roses, eh? Venie's male counterpart, Taurus, resembles Mason quite a bit with his stillness, except while Mason was angry, it appears that Taurus, er, just… doesn't care. Well. The emotionless tributes always do better in the Games, eh?"

District Two slides out of sight. District Three replaces it, and I groan.

"Oh, These outfits are truly the peaks of fashion, the coup de grace's of the fashion world- NOT. Futuristic is cool and all, but I think these clunky robot costumes are going too far… _way_ too far. Futura and Tesla look like they want to disappear, and I can't blame them. I want them to disappear too. Perhaps this costume could be improved a tiny bit if the robots were colorful, but their a flat, extremely boring steel gray. Ick. Of course, the costumes would be better if they weren't there at all… Ah, I don't mean that! I'm not a pedophile! I just think it's an ugly costume, I- I- AAAGH!"

I sputter and spit into the microphone as roars of laughter rise from the stands. My face burns brighter then ever, but I press on. District Four rolls in.

"Aloha! Serena and Maximus are looking perfectly beachy in grass skirts- let's be generous for Mason and say 'kilt-', seashells, pearls, and coral woven in their hair, sand on the bottoms of their feet, and swirling blue-and-green body paint that looks just like the ocean! The two of them are both shirtless, but Serena has a long necklace dotted with bushy beach flowers to cover her goods. Both of them are living it up, waving energetically at the crowd and blowing kisses to their fans, though the grins on their faces don't seem quite genuine…"

Serena, Maximus, and their violet-green-blue, oceanic chariot roll out. Five makes it's appearance.

"Oh, I just… _ew._ A _turbine?!_ A _turbine?!_ What possess someone to make that kind of costume?! I can't even see Nyso's face thanks to the cloud of black smog his ugly outfit is producing, but he's curled up in the corner, so if I'd have to hazard a guess I'd say he's pretty embarrassed. He's also giving us the finger. Oh. Uh… let's turn our attention to Hesiodia, shall we? She's scrunched up in the corner of her chariot, as far away from Nyso and his smoke-spitting costume as possible, but she's still waving and bouncing exuberantly. Her outfit is turbine-gray, too, but it's much better then her poor District partner's. First off, it has her name scrawled on it in neon paint- light-up paint. Because Five… and light… Oh! I get it! Second, it's not spewing soot everywhere. Definitely a plus. But the horror of Nyso's outfit and his, uh, sour attitude definitely outweigh her relatively innovative costume and excited, if a bit smug, demeanor. District Five is officially a flop!"

Thank the heavens, District Five finally disappears around the corner, and Six heads in.

"District Six is… not bad, actually! Preston's wearing a conductor outfit, and Quinn's donning the sleek tiles of a hovercraft, only modified to work on a plain, short dress. The girl already nicknamed 'Panem's Lightbulb' is dashing to every corner of the large chariot, waving and baring her teeth in several oddly aggressive smiles. She's dragging Preston along with her, who just seems tired. His eyes are red, like he's been crying. I do hope he's alright. Overall, District Six might be a little dull and _yawn,_ but it's not terrible! It gets a pass! Give it up for District Six, everybody!"

District Seven's chariot rolls in.

"Well, District Seven is- _IS HEAVENLY RIDING THE HORSE?!"_

"After the total catastrophe that was District Seven, we're moving on to a much calmer district. Eight is a bit boring, like Six, but I'm sure that after Seven we're glad to see something resembling normal. Cajsa and Ajax are rag dolls, in baggy patchwork outfits, with buttons over their eyes. I take it back. District Eight isn't normal- it's more then a little creepy. I'm going to have nightmares after this, aren't I? Anyways, the two are dressed as rag dolls, and clutching dolls to their chests. Cajsa is shy, but smiling sweetly, with her mouth closed. Go on! Show us those shiny teeth! Ajax is playing the crowd like a fiddle, winking at them, blowing kisses, and practically dancing to the formal music playing. It would be more charming if he wasn't blinded by black buttons and stumbling clumsily all over the chariot, bouncing off the walls. He's receiving far more then his fair share of flowers, however. Must be the looks."

"Oh! Here's something we _really_ haven't seen from Nine before. The two are wearing sweeping golden robes edged with wheat-colored thread and wearing elaborate, beautiful gold headdresses with amber gems shaped like the tops of wheat stalks. They have staffs, too, shaped like- you guessed it- wheat. They look _very_ stately, and the crowd is simply eating them up! Rodrick is ignoring the crowds completely, staring extremely obsessively at an obviously uncomfortable Teryn. He doesn't seem to be blinking."

"Ten is… Ten is cows."

"Richard is an apple. No joke. He looks positively edible in that outfit, yes, but it's not exactly the last word in fashion. Finlay redeems Eleven, however, with her gorgeous apple-blossom dress. The girl looks like she's simply fluttered in from the orchard! Finlay's fiddling with her hands, looking quite unhappy. Stop picking at your fingernails! Nasty habit. Richard looks embarrassed, but he's waving energetically at the crowd anyways, gaining their attention with his megawatt-bright grins and saucy hair flips. The men might not be so quick to forgive him for his prep team's mistakes, but the woman seem willing to look beyond his ridiculous apple costume…"

I bite down hard on my lip as the final chariot rolls in. Almost done. Almost done…

"Last but certainly not least, we have District Twelve! Henry's in the miner's outfit atypical of twelve, soot stains and all. Alicia's stylists, however, appear to have tried something new. She's wearing a creamy yellow dress embellished with yellow feathers, and gold wings unfurl from her back. I'm not sure what she's supposed to be… oh, wait! My wife's informing me she's a _canary in a coal mine!_ Oh, that's clever! She seems to think so too, fluttering her wings energetically and waving wildly at the crowd. Henry is in the same boat, despite not having any wings to flap. He's doing quite well with his arms, however."

I mop my brow.

"Well, those were the Chariots, everybody! So much beauty, so much grace… and so much failure!"


	20. Training, Day One: Careers

_Mason Dowry, District 1 Male, 18 years old_

Us Careers find ourselves drawn to the weapons stations like moths to a lightbulb. I reach it first and lunge for the swords, creating a ferocious clatter that brings other Careers- as we're legendary-trouble seekers- to the station. The girl from two creeps in next, a slithering shadow, shooting careful arrows and slashing with knives, her shadowy blue eyes glinting in the gloom her presence brings. The boys from four and two come next, and I find myself reflected in them- the same lust for the Games, though the boy from two is more enthusiastic by far. The two slash and cut with fat blades- the four boy takes a trident, as per usual, and the two boy picks up a long steel sword and practically grounds a dummy into dust. My people.

"So, I'll be leading the pack, of course." Says the boy from two- Taurus- with a thin smile that doesn't reach his frigid eyes. I scoff. "Actually, I believe _I'M_ leading the pack-"

"No."

I turn to the four boy, Maximus, in amazement. "What do you mean, no!?" I ask him indignantly." He lets out a soft hiss, his fingers twitching erratically against his bicep, looking as if they want to be fastened around someone's throat. I can't imagine who.

"Serena's the leader." He says flatly, and the four girl, Serena, starts in amazement, shooting him a bewildered glance. "HER?!" I laugh. "She's a girl! She can't lead the pack!"

"Trust me." Says Maximus calmly. "I bet I can persuade you."

I huff. "Go on, persuade me then! Nothing is making me give this up."

Maximus flashes me a dark look, one I can't yet comprehend, but I know is significant. "I'll tell you later." He mouths. I nod stiffly.

After a chaotic hour that includes much screaming, a ruined plate of lasagna, the girl from 12 mouthing off to a dumbstruck Taurus, and half of Venie's greasy hair splayed across the floor, Maximus' hand is vicelike on my arm and he pulls me from the wreckage and into the hallway.

"Listen up." He says quickly, and a random sense of urgency infects me. Apprehension pricks at my spin.

"I have a proposition for you…"

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female, 18 years old_

I approach the Careers with swaying hips and a glossy coat of peach lipstick.

They aren't impressed.

"Reapee." My district partner spits it out like a curse, his blond hair in wild spikes, framing a sweaty, malicious face.

"Pathetic." The Two girl says it quietly, like it's a simple statement instead of an insult, her pale face eclipsed by ever-constant shadows.

"Leave." This comes from the Four girl, the clear leader, her chin tilted up in challenge, eyes flashing fire and might.

"I'll be pleased to." I sneer. "You have no idea who you're turning down, girly."

The Four girl pauses, looking slightly confused at my daring. I smirk at her, eyes widening in an innocent fashion.

"We know who we're turning down." Says the Four boy, his face thrown into sharp relief by the fluorescent lighting. "A sniveling reapee who'll die at the bloodbath." I hiss wildly, and just then do I remember my mask. I freeze, swaying on the balls of my feet.

 _My mask!_

I'm such an idiot.

I press it on again, feeling slippery plastic scrape against my cheek and the familiar smell of sweat fill my nose. This time around, I embrace it.

"I'm sorry." I whisper. "I… I just want protection… p-please… I'm trying to intimidate people, bu-but-" Bu-but!" My district partner mocks. "You better scram before I stick my sword through your stomach, stutterer!" I cringe and force tears to form in my eyes.

"Slut." He says, and it doesn't matter which he because in my mind their words and names and stories and lives blend together.

I can break him, but I won't.

Because just for a second, the word catches me off guard.

How many times have I heard it? Slut, bitch, whore, floozy. Asking for it. So many words, flung at me like heavy things, as if they're supposed to weigh me down. Break me. Cut the human right out of me.

And I always feel the impact. The bomb blast. Unimaginable pain and hatred ripping through me with force enough to rip up trees and churn up dreams.

But just for a second.

They break me, but only for a second.

Because god knows I'm good at rebuilding myself.

But that's the problem, isn't it? The fact that I need to rebuild myself at all. That boys are _players, studs, real men,_ while woman are _sluts, whores, not deserving of respect._ That they think they can spit on me and degrade me and rip me down for who I choose to have sex with, and how often. I am mighty. Above that. And hell, even if I were a virgin who had never so much as held a boy's hand, I would be a slut anyways. Because that's just how life is. Boobs and a uterus equals slut.

Forever and always.

 _Once upon a time, there was a monster pretending to be a girl._

 _She preened and danced and fought like a spitting cat, but instead of using her claws she used her words, knowing they cut deeper then the sharpest claws could. She wore a mask, and she wore it well, so well that ivory and pearls and choppy cuts seemed to blend into her skin. Everyone knew she wore a mask, but they assumed it was because she was an insecure girl and insecure girls flaunt masks and hoods regularly. They didn't think she did it to hide her monstrous identity._

 _But some had their suspicions…_

 _She was a pretty little monster, she was, with honey eyes and a kitten smile and a bedroom body. So pretty that boys were drawn to her like moths to a flame and only then did they notice the claws and teeth. Only then did they see the wild, predatory features marred by hot wax and claw marks, caused by less savage monsters who fought defensively instead of offensively, like she always did. She hurt them and tore them and ripped them down. And some of them fought back. They did it with words, of course._

 _And she had the_ _ **gall**_ _to be offended._

 _Hate me for being terrible. A monster. Hate me for cutting you down, building you up, and cutting you down again._

 _But don't hate me for being a woman._

 _Because that's not exactly something I can control._

 _My life was never based around choices._

 _But I always attack the ones others make._

 _Have the decency to attack my choices,_

 _Instead of my being._

 **A/N: Feminist mindset activated :D. If it seems like Chablis is getting a lot of attention, it's an accident. I gave her the train scene because Mason is reaaaaally one dimensional. Then I realized she needed this, too. Don't worry. I'll tone down the Chablis.**


	21. Training, Day One: Goofballs

**A/N: Hey guys. I'm sorry this update's so late, but my life is becoming increasingly hectic, and I'm barely finding time to write this. From this point on, I'll probably be updating way less often. But I'm not giving up on this story. Promise.**

 _Quinn Jennings, District 6 Tribute_

The edible plants section isn't extremely welcoming, what with the grim-faced trainer and the piles of spiky, extremely inedible looking herbs. But the weapons stations are out of the question. The Careers are a grim looking sort, and I definitely don't want to evoke their wrath. So plants it is.

"What's this one?" I ask the trainer curiously, fiddling with a spiky green leaf. For the first time, a flicker of a smile lights up the trainer's sullen face. "It's wood nettle. It gives you rashes."

I yelp and drop it.

After that, I decide to move on.

The snare station is next. The instructor there is friendlier, with a giant smile and cotton candy hair. She looks excited to have someone over here, and her enthusiasm leaks into me like she's a dripping tap. We're tying ropes and swapping jokes when the boy from eight sidles up to me with a shit-eating grin. I wince. I know what's coming.

"Do you really think this is the best time to practice your pick-up lines?" I ask him dryly. He draws back, an expression of mock shock on his face. "My dear lady! How dare you insinuate…" "Cut the crap." I mutter. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you." "Well," He says with a grin. "It's a good thing I'm here to ask you about an alliance, seeing as that might cheer you up."

I blink in surprise. "You want an alliance? With me?" "Of course!" He grins, spreading his arms open wide. "I've done a _very_ specific evaluation of every lovely lady in the room and I've decided that you're the best fit for me. Cute and talkative." I gag. "Is that a yes?" He asks, looking hopeful. I laugh. "You know what? Sure. That's a yes." He blinks, owl like and astonished. "O-oh! Great!" I smile. "An alliance of three isn't enough, though." "Wait, what?" He asks, confused. "I've already allied with my district partner, Preston. But three isn't enough. I think four's an ideal number, how about you?"

And then I point across the room.

 _Gareth Barkely, District 7 Tribute_

 _Thunk._

The axe clips the side of the target and goes spinning into the abyss. I shrug. Everyone always expects Seven tributes to be axe-masters or something. We aren't, not really. I have some practice in the axe yards, but really, I'm just a boy.

Just a boy…

A boy that's about to die.

I shudder as the venomous thoughts enter my brain, whispering in my ear, poison breath in my head. These thoughts have been coming more and more often.

I'm terrified to die.

I've thought about it a lot, how I would die. In books, it's always described as not really that painful, that it's graceful, that it's a simple swoon and then death.

I call bullshit.

I can't imagine that it doesn't hurt to have a sharp blade sifting through your insides, ripping through organ and tissue, puncturing every artery and letting blood spill freely… I'm doing it again.

Would it be by a Career? A bloody stab, a white hot flash of pain, and your last memories being of chuckles and "Nice ones!"? Would it be by a desperate, addled outlier with a sharp rock and a plagued mind? By mutts? Illness? Poison? Electrocution?

The list goes on… and on… and on.

Falling? Stampeding? Being crushed? Being choked? Being held underwater as my lungs burned and screamed for help, as my body flailed and thrashed and searched desperately for air?

There are so many ways, each one equally terrifying and painful. Will adrenaline numb it in the end, like everyone says? Or will every second be filled with indescribable pain, with agony in it's purest form?

I'm scared.

I'm so, so scared.

I retrieve my axe with a heavy heart. I'm trudging back to the station when I hear the whispers.

"He's not a very good shot."

"He's the only one who has any skill with a weapon at all!"

"We haven't seen his District partner practice with axes yet."

"That's because she's high as a kite."

"Point taken."

I blink in surprise, wondering whether I should feel flattered or offended. I twist around, shoving the axe roughly back into the pile. "If you're talking about me, do it to my face!" I yell at the chatterers- the boy from eight, the girl from six, and her district partner, who hasn't actually said a thing but is instead lurking awkwardly behind them.

The girl blinks, abashed. "You have good hearing!" She yells at me from across the room.

"Thanks!" I yell back. "My voice is getting kind of hoarse, though, could you come over here?"

"Certainly!" She yells back, and swaggers towards me, the boy from eight at her side, and the six boy lagging behind, obsessively picking at his fingernails.

"Well?" I ask. "Care to make your statements to my face?" She grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet, freckled face shining with glee. "Want to be in our alliance?" She blurts out, then slaps her hands over her mouth. "Oh shit! I didn't want to say it like that!"

"I thought you said you weren't in the mood for flirting- OW!"

"That's what you get!"

"ANYWAYS!" I interrupt them. "The alliance?" "Oh, right!" Says the girl, abashed. "Well, I'm Quinn, the idiot next to me is Ajax, and this is Preston!" She says, gesturing to herself, the 8 boy, and her partner all in turn. "We were wondering if you would like to join our alliance?" I blinked.

Would I?

My death would definitely be prolonged if I had allies to protect me, but I might end up depending on them, or worse, be drawn close to them- so I'd be shattered when they'd die.

Was the outcome worth it?

I thought of tearing blades and grim smiles and sharp teeth and Capitolites sipping champagne and cheering.

Yes, it was.

"Okay, I'll join your alliance." I said with a smile. Quinn pumped her fist and Ajax grinned. "But we have a problem." "What is it?" Quinn asked. "We don't have a name."

"A… name?" Said Preston, speaking up for the first time, his face awash with confusion. "We could call ourselves the fantastic four!" Quinn yelled. "Nah, I have a better idea." Said Ajax with a sharp grin. "The four-leaf clovers. There's four of us, four-leaf clovers are lucky, and we need some luck right now."

"Sounds good!"

 **A/N: Writing is hard when you've had six hours of sleep.**


	22. Training, Day Two: Gay Overload

**A/N: Where are the reviews yet? Seriously, as of the time I'm writing this, only Indium has reviewed. Also, this story got into a Community- Popular Stories on Fanfiction, aka a Community for stories with an overload of reviews/follows/favorites. I'm slightly confused as to why it's there, as only about two, three-ish people review regularly, but I appreciate it all the same. Also, I've created a forum for the games! Here's the link to my forums- I couldn't get the link to the forum itself, but I only have one forum, so it shouldn't exactly be hard to find. Also, I've changed my name! It's SparkALeah now.** myforums/SparkALeah/6792668/ **  
****Warning: Mood whiplash and creepy imagery**

 _Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female_

I stare at the dagger, limpid hands trembling. The sharp blade could be linked to my fate. If I fail at using it, my own life could slip through my finger.

The dummy leers at me, painted smile burning through every layer of my soul, unwrapping me, examining me, searing into my crisped skin. My fingers shake harder and I take a few clumsy steps towards the grotesquely smiling dummy. I stab cautiously at it with my dull dagger.

It barely makes a dent in the dummy's taut leather skin.

"Heh..." A poisonous whisper in my ear. A voice- a terrifying voice. All I want to do is whip around and bury my dagger into supple flesh and watch as skin tears and blood sprays like a broken faucet. But I don't do it. Because I know that I'd only get a single strike in before the person behind me whips me around and buries a fat blade into the flesh of my stomach, ripping my skin and cleaving my bones and marrow in two. "It'll be easy to kill you, little girl. You can't handle that knife to save your life, and the games will prove it." This time, I can't help but emit a terrified squeak and he laughs sourly, his breath venom on my bare cheek.

I twist around.

It isn't a Career. Far from it, actually. It's the boy from nine, the one with the wide smile and the unhinged gaze. I tremble, shaking like a leaf. I can't remember being more scared.

Wait- I can. When my mother died, when I was reaped, when Ronja was up on the factory roof…

But this is hands-on fear, when something terrible is happening to you RIGHT NOW, whether a fire or a flood or a psychopath's silky, bloody words echoing in your eardrums. I've never suffered from hands-on fear as potent as this, when your knees clack together and your teeth chatter and your soul buzzes with adrenaline telling you to run run go GO run RABBIT RUN.

"Why are you quivering?" He laughs. "I'm not dangerous, promise!" I stare at him in response, transfixed by horror. "I guess I'm going for you in the bloodbath the-"

He blinks then, and shudders, his whole body quivering like pure electricity is running through his veins. And then he stops. He stares at me, and his eyes are cold and blank. If anything, this scares me far, far more then him from before. Before, he was obviously obsessed with sewing pain. Now? He's escaped all emotion, leaving him cold-eyed and empty. He stares at me for another panic-fueled second, before turning around and walking away.

Shit. Shit shit shit. I'm going to cry in front of everyone. My vision blurs and I can feel the sloppy tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I need to run. To go. Far, far away from here.

I spin around, my vision muddled and burst out the door. I run down the velvet corridor, my feet thumping dully on the ground, full-fledged sobs shaking me. I'm a coward. I'm such a coward. Ronja's sure to see the tapes, and then what? Will she just assume I've given up?

I blunder into the wall, my hips and shoulders slamming into flat marble. I welcome the stinging pain and slide down, curling myself into a ball and letting the tears take me. Everyone always says crying makes you feel better, but every tear reminds me of his hot breath and alternating sadistic and cold glances.

"Are you okay?"

I pull my head up from between my knees and rub furiously at my eyes. The girl from ten towers over me, expression transfixed by horror, pity, and worry. "Not really." I hiccup. Without warning, she plops down beside me, eyes gentle. "That guy's just a bully. He doesn't know anything at all. I, personally, was impressed by your knifework." I laugh dryly. "I barely made a dent in that dummy!" "Better then I would have done." She jokes, and grabs my elbow. She dries my tears gently and I feel a strange, jelly-like sensation in my legs. "Let's go back to the training room, shall we?" She says. I nod, and we head back to the training room, laughing all the way.

 _Futura Light, District 3 Female_

I used to think I was a smart person, but now I'm not so sure.

Take a look at the damning evidence.

First, I volunteer for the Hunger Games, an obviously idiotic move. The mark of a genius is not, shockingly, flinging yourself into a teenage death match. Nice job, me! Enjoy being _dead._

It was an intelligent decision on my part to go into damage control by making allies, I'll admit.

But it is _not_ a smart decision to even consider allying with the friendliest girls in the room!

Honestly, sometimes I don't know why I bother trying to act rationally. The stupid lump of organ in my chest is in control at all times. Me being here is living- soon to be dead- proof of that.

 _UGH._

Crystaille Alexander and Casja Varis are unacceptable choices for allies. They're spineless. Cajsa ran out of the room in tears after a five-second conversation with the boy from nine. They don't know how to do anything but smile. They've formed a friendship disregarding the infinitely important fact that they are supposed to _kill each other._

And yet I still want to ally with them!

Stupid heart. Stupid brain. Stupid Futura.

"EVERYTHING'S STUPID!"

Nobody hears me. Everyone's engrossed in their own little worlds in their stations. One of the Career's shoots me a scathing look, but he's the only one. Everyone else remains hopelessly oblivious. Including Crystaille and Cajsa, who're flirting by the snares station.

Before I know it, my stupid, traitorous feet are striding across the room, towards Crystaille and Cajsa, away from my home the electronic station. I plant myself in front of them, cursing my mouth and feet and heart and wanting while simultaneously talking.

"Uh… hi?"

 _Stupid Futura! If you're actually talking to them, try not to sound like an ingrate_!

"Err, sorry. Uh, I'm Futura. Do you… uh, that's to say, um, would you, well, consider, uh, maybe, well, sorta, kinda… alling with me?

 _You totally ruined it. They're going to chuck a snare at your head and then you won't have any allies._

Cajsa and Crystaille shoot each other bewildered glances, and then Crystaille shrugs. "Sure!" She says brightly.

"Um, what?"

 _Well slap the horse and… shoot the horse? Something the horse and slap me silly. Wow, Futura, you're bad at sayings._

I know, shut up!

 _Crystaille Alexander, District 10 Female_

Futura's proven herself to be a valuable asset so far. She's pretty good with snares and a wizard with electronics, nearly killing the lights at one point. Now that I think about it, though, I doubt she intended to cut the lights, so maybe she's not as good at it as I think…

There's a thought troubling me even as we mull over snares and I think about Futura's actions so far. I'm not dull enough the think I can win these Games without a weapon, but I don't know if I could touch a blade without, I dunno, fainting or something. Cajsa is at least practicing with her dagger, and Futura his been trying with easy-make tasers and knives both. Futura is far more adapt at her weapon then Cajsa, but at least the both of them are _trying._ That's more then I'm doing.

I breathe in, deeply. How am I going to protect my allies if I don't have a weapon? I'll just need to suck it up and find something to fight with.

I wander away from Cajsa and Futura to the weapons station. The girl from four has forced her allies to the edible plants station, so I'm all alone at the table, with the exception of the trainer.

I fiddle around with the weapons for a few minutes, flipping blades and feeling knives. Everything just feels so wrong. The blades are cold, the spikes on the maces cruel, the clubs unfamiliar.

And then I spot it.

The lasso.

I'm from Ten, the animal District, so I have a lot of practice lassoing creatures. The lasso is like an extension of my arm. But lassoing people and lassoing animals are bound to be somewhat different. Nevertheless, it's the only thing I have to work with. I grab the rope and immediately feel a flush of pleasure run through my veins. After the unfamiliarity of the other weapons, my familiar lasso feels like heaven on my hands. I turn and face a disgusting, grinning dummy.

I extend the long, thin rope and watch it whistle through the air. It falls perfectly around the dummy's neck and I jerk it forwards, far rougher then I would with any animal. I haul the dummy towards me, fasten my fingers around it's neck, and squeeze, imagining tendons beneath me fingers, a desperate pulse and throbbing blood, gurgles…

Shocked at the images in my mind, I stumble backwards. My fingers disconnect and the flood of feeling ebbs, leaving me on the ground, rough rope rubbing against my palms.

 **A/N: If you haven't guessed, I think of Futura as very Peridot-y, and write her as such.**


	23. Training, Day Two: Badasses and Littlies

**A/N: I've got nothing to say today. Enjoy the chapter!**

 _Teryn Gardner, District 9 Female_

My fingers scrape the cold copper handle of the pitchfork as I dig the bulky tool into tattered leather "flesh," the prongs of the tool- weapon?- sending chunks of fluff flying. I let out a strangled huff of annoyance and push the prongs in further, aiming to cause deep wounds instead of light scrapes. The leather gives and I rip down as the pitchfork enters the softly stuffed insides. A chasm opens up in the dummy's stomach and I grin with pride, ignoring the stirring feeling of unease deep in my chest, a throbbing ache. I pull back, feeling the give and the tear and the resistance. It pops free and I nearly stumble backwards, catching myself just in time, arms windmilling.

The trainer chuckles. "All weapons do that when stuck in flesh. It's good practice for you." I frown. "I was hoping I would never have to practice." I say. Heavy implication hangs with my words, souring the air. The trainer frowns, his smile curdling like spoiled milk. He sighs heavily. I get the message, shooting him a cold glare before stomping away. I'm not going to keep my mouth shut. I need to speak. I'm going into the Hunger Games and I'm going to die anyways, so really, what harm can it do?

I stomp over to the camouflage station, my bones as heavy as lead. There is something they could do. They could hurt my family. My parents. My siblings. Millard. Everyone I love can and will be hurt by my words. But there's no way in hell I can shut up. How can I be quiet, when my words can deal potent damage to sneering Capitolites? But how can I be loud when my every sentence is a grenade chucked at the only people I love?

Speak up or be silent. Make noise or pipe down.

I aggressively dab at my arm with the brush, watching as forest colors unfold on my skin, fingers of earthy brown and dripping leaf green creeping up my tanned arm, creating a hopelessly messy pattern on my arm. I scowl. I'm not exactly an artist.

And then I hear the voice, heavy with unspoken promise.

"Finally, another person with a voice."

 _Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female_

I don't know what inspires me to say it. I was planning on lying low after the morphling disaster. It wore off during lunch, and I had no time to eat thanks to the spasms. I felt their judgmental eyes boring into me, and after that I decided it was best to keep out of sight.

But this girl…

She intrigues me. Openly challenging a trainer about the Hunger Games? That takes guts, and I need those on my side. She has a magnetic quality that drags me to her side, and I know exactly what it is.

She acts just how I imagine I would if my soul wasn't scarred.

She whips around, eyes wide. I smile at her slyly, and make a quick decision. I'll ask her to ally. She probably won't say yes, anyways, so what's the harm?

"Want to ally?" I say coolly. She blinks and her eyes nearly bug out of her head. I scramble to explain, hoping she doesn't think my suggestion is ludicrous. "You're obviously against these insane games, and I am too, so I just thought…" My voice falters and peters out. I twitch, and whatever hope there was in my heart snuffs out. I'm a stammering mess, and I swear I can still feel morphling seeping in the cracks of my mind, whispering stunted promises, digging it's claws into the weakest parts of my brain. I've only had it once and yet I crave the drug deeper then I've craved anything in my life, other then for Autumn to live and for me rapist to die. The cravings hit me like a sledgehammer every so often, and all I want is the sickly sweet drug in my veins, blurring the edges of this sharp world and splashing color across a ashy gray landscape. If I had a vial of morphling and a syringe right now, I'm not sure I could stop myself from pumping the drug in my blood and flying off to la la land.

She puts a stop to my morphling musings when she asks, "What's your name?"

I blink. "Heavenly," I say calmly. The corner of her mouth quirks up a bit. "Interesting name." She laughs. "Sure you aren't from one?" "Positive." I snap. "I've told you my name, now you tell me yours." She dabs the brown brush on her arm, imitating bark. "Teryn." She says with a smile. I smile hesitantly back at her, glad she appears to be warming up to me. "I'll join your alliance." She says with a grin. "I'm curious about you. How did you come across a name like Heavenly?"

 _Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female_

There are tears in my eyes, I think. I've never had so much food. My belly is swelling and my head is pounding for some reason. It's beautiful. All the food almost makes up for the fact that I'm going to die.

I don't know why it doesn't scare me. Maybe because I've lived my entire life under the threat of death. Whether by starvation or a stab wound in an alley, in twelve, most people die before they turn 30. I've always known I wouldn't beat the odds, and this doesn't make it feel any more "real." Honestly, I'm more worried about what's going to happen when I get in the Games and have to live off tree bark again.

An image of poppy seeds flash up on the huge screen in front of me, and I quickly slap my palm against the "edible" button. "While poppy seeds are edible, they act as a sedative, causing sleepiness, which means you would be unadvised to eat them. "The computer hums, moving on to the next question. I wince. I should have known that!

"Watcha doooing?" I hear a voice chirp behind me. I spin around to see a grinning Henry, brown eyes shining. The steady influx of good food has caused us both to swell- I'm more noticeable, but Henry's filled out as well. There isn't that much growing you can do in three days, but the bags under our eyes have faded and our bellies pooch out a little.

"Working on the edible plants test." I say with a smile. Henry grins. "Great!" He chirps. Then he blinks, and his expression grows strangely solemn. "Do you…" He stutters. "Do you wanna be my ally?"

I furrow my brow, surprised. "Aren't we allies already?" I ask. "Huh?" He says, confused. "Like, we talk all the time and eat together and spend nearly all our time together." I say, perplexed. Henry grins, waggling his eyebrows. "If we were still in school, people would say you _liiiiike_ me." He laughs. I push him away jokingly. "You wish!" I giggle. "So, are we allied or not?" He asks patiently. "Of course!" I grin. He smirks at me, expression lighting up.

"Great, because I have something to show you!"

 _Henry Wade, District 12 Male_

I grab Alicia's hand and dash across the room. We explode out the door, howling like hyenas, drunk on potential. I pull her down the hallway and we cram into the elevator, wheezing. Elevator music fills our ears as we rise and I tell her what we have planned. I hear a ding and the doors spring open like a freed trap. We burst through, dancing through crystal hallways. I smile, a hint of mischief in my grin at what I'm planning. I see a flash of rust-red and I run over to it.

The fire alarm.

"You ready to ride some rollercoasters?" I ask her with a smug smile.

She grins back at me, eyes twinkling. "I've never been more ready."


	24. Training, Day Three: Loners P1

**A/N: Enjoy the chapter.**

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female_

 _8:27 P.M_

So. I haven't found myself any allies. That certainly throws a wrench into my plans. I won't lie- I was planning on piggybacking off the work of some poor saps and killing them when the time came, maybe seduce them a little. Casual sex is always fun, and I don't have to deal with clingy partners afterwards, especially if I knife them. However, I'm not exactly sure I want my genitals to be on public display for everyone in the country to see and ogle. So maybe it's better my plan is doomed to succeed.

Still, there's an anxious worm in my stomach. Surviving the Games has just become much, much harder. There are certain measures I'll need to take to ensure my survival. For one, I'll have to put on a show. Some poor tribute will end up tortured because of me. If I'm being honest, it doesn't bother me that much. I guess I'm a sociopath or whatever. I just don't really care about anyone else or what they end up becoming due to my actions. I'm just apprehensive about the repercussions.

There's an aspect of randomness to the Games. Strong tributes might make it towards the end, or they could be teamed up on as early as the bloodbath. Weaklings might be picked off in the beginning like they fear, but they might coast to the final 8 simply by luck and cautiousness. There's no way to tell. Sure, you can guess you will or won't be the victor- but maybe the cards will shuffle them into a favored position, or cheat you permanently, leaving you bleeding on the ground. How am I supposed to know what to do? Who to trust? Which moves to make, which weak spots to psychologically target? Terrifying thoughts swirl around me, lifting me up in a tide of terrifying visions of the future. I could rise to victory, but more likely my lifeblood will splatter across the arena, painting whichever horrifying backdrop the gamemaker's choose scarlet.

Speaking of which…

I am not naïve enough to believe that we, the tributes have complete control over our fates. The cards might, hypothetically, land in the favor of a rebellious outlier, but the gamemakers will always be able to overrule it. In the end, it's really a matter of who plays the best game. And I've never lost a single game I've participated in. But this is a matter of life and death, and what happens if, say, I loose my cool? It's never happened before. But then again, the stakes have never been so high before. I'm confused. I'm pulling out clumps of my hair. There are welts raising on my skin from where I've ripped at it, my fingers scratching desperately at bare skin, looking for an outlet.

I feel like a bomb. It's only a matter of time…

I angrily stuff my hand into the food slot, my feet aching from hours of pacing. Several soft, piping-hot cinnamon-dusted rolls tumble from the slot. I'm about to bite into them greedily when I stop… stare.

284 calories. My image. The gamemakers…

It's all coming together now!

If I want to win, if I want to have any chance of surviving whatsoever, I _must_ cater to the audience. No ifs, ands, or buts- someone with an unpopular image in the Capitol stands absolutely zero chance. And obviously, my personality and the choices I make will affect my image as well.

But there is nothing the Capitol prizes over beauty. _Nothing._ I'm beautiful, I know that. And I will earn some sponsors with that alone. So I can do nothing that will jeopardize my image. I cannot gain a single pound. Every calorie is a curse, another thread connecting me to life snapping.

I twist around and fling the rolls out the window.

I am not to die.

 _I MUST NOT DIE._

Calories are death. Cinnamon rolls are death. Every spare inch, every roll of flab, is another chance for the gamemakers to destroy me, snuff out my life like snuffing out a candle. Easy. As. That.

My stomach rumbles, my thoughts churn in my head, turning darker and darker alarmingly quickly, a hurricane in my mind.

I can't even afford to eat anything, can I? To eat is to perish, to drink is to expire. Of course, I'll have to eat what is needed to sustain me, but that is it. The bare minimum. Anything extra is death itself in a sweet, salty, sour, bitter, or umami package.

I am _not_ to die.

If food is death, then I guess I'm not eating.

 _Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male_

 _12:04 A.M_

My chat with Crystaille was for naught. She found two girls to ally with and I'm sitting alone. I can't muster up the courage to ask anyone. Crystaille has already told me- albeit politely and apologetically- she doesn't want any more allies. The careers would probably use me as a weapons target. The four-person alliance is tight-knight, and I know there's no use in befriending any of them. The little-kid alliance is not an option for two obvious reasons. The first is that both of them are scrawny pre-teens. The second is that nobody can find them.

Yeah, they're missing, and we're all bitterly jealous. They disappeared sometime around the false alarm yesterday, and nobody has any idea where they are. I wish I had taken the time to befriend them, even if for selfish reasons. Then I wouldn't be here.

I stare miserably at my plate of pasta. I don't even have a book to occupy me, so I'm sitting alone at an abandoned table, poking miserably at my noodles. They look quite appetizing, but it's not like I have any appetite. That would be a miracle.

Then I hear the screams.

The cafeteria door explodes open and peacekeepers by the bucketloads pour in, a clustered knot surrounding two squirming shapes. My heart sinks all the way to my boots.

They found them.

There's another scream from inside the twisted cluster, a shrill female screech to balance out the squeaky but clearly male yell from a few seconds ago. I hear a moan of pain then and a scuffle. The peacekeepers part and a slippery figure explodes from the knot, the terrified boy from twelve. There's a howl from the peacekeepers and a bang.

My heart hiccups.

When the smoke clears, I see the twelve boy flopping on the ground like a dying fish, wailing, his hands clutching his feet. With a gulp of horror, I realize thick, reddish blood is oozing from between his fingers.

The peacekeeper shot him in the foot.

The girl screams again and they let her through this time. She pops like a cork out of a bottle from the huddle and practically throws herself on him, sobbing wildly. The peacekeepers slowly back away from their own- the blubbering peacekeeper who shot the twelve boy in the foot, apparently on accident. "Oh god guys I didn't mean to!" He keeps yelling, gasping, heaving for breath like there's nothing in his lungs but pleas. "Please don't turn me in, please please please, please don't tell them it was me…"

They grasp his arm and pull him out. He's still sobbing, as if they'll listen.

A poisonous surge of fury rises in my gut, and I feel the need to punch someone. Anyone. But preferably the peacekeepers.

I settle on rising out of my seat and stomping out of the lunchroom with a tight jaw and clenched fists.

 **A/N: Chablis Chablis Chablis. Have some more Chablis. Oh, not enough Chablis? Have a sprinkle of Chablis on top! Seriously though, I love getting into this girl's head. She has such a poisonous brain and it's so much fun to write! I may or may not be getting carried away writing her. XD.**


	25. Training, Day Three: Loners P2

**A/N: Yooooo. I woke up early and stupidly starting writing instead of going back to sleep. I've got a hell of a headache, but I've also got a finished chapter, so fair trade I guess. Urghhhh. Enjoy the chapter!**

 _Nyso Torrent, District 5 Male_

 _4:16 AM_

Darkness. Adrenaline. Pain. Hot fingers of fear crawling up my soul, leaving purple bruises and harsh marks on my heart. Running. Running. Running. Heart pounding, feet aching, nothing but the bleak and terrible dark. Chest heaving. Ragged gasps. Go go go. Animal instincts. Pain and fear and sick and everything wrong with this world. Thudding footsteps behind me. Pointed teeth gleaming in the gloom. Screaming, my throat burning. The crackle of a match coming to life.

But it's still dark.

Why is it still dark!?

Breathing in the putrid smoke. Lungs wailing. Invisible flames biting at my feet as I stagger on. Bile searing my mouth, burning through my enamel. The hot breath of death on my back. A cold hand at my neck, yanking me backwards into inky fire. My skin crisping, roasting, the smell of my own shriveling black flesh filling my nose, an overload of my most potent sense. My moans of pain and my screams for it to end, for me to just die. Death's callous answer in the form of a silver blade plunging into my stomach, ripping through meat and organ and splintering bone. My blood, soot-black like everything else in this midnight hell. Fire and steel eating at me. Me looking up.

Catching a glimpse of death's face.

First it's the boy from nine, the one with the silky tongue and angry eyes. Then the one girl, her teeth bared and amber eyes wild. The one boy, the two boy, and the four boy fused together, faces wicked with glee. The girl from two, her eyes shadowed by a curtain of greasy hair swaying like a pendulum. The four girl, nothing clouding her expression but sheer determination and willpower. The three girl and the seven girl blurring together, faces expressionless as they whisper "we will do _anything."_ Even the puny pair from twelve, sobbing as they twist the knife in my gut. Every single tribute flashes by. Every single tribute pulls out a knife and a match and murders me with steel and smoke and fear.

My lifeblood seeps out of me as my vision dulls, gray clouds eclipsing my sight. But I still live. I still cling to life, scrabble at it with dull fingers, determined not to go gentle into this good night.

Then I feel the claws gripping my waist.

I scream, flopping around in the metal claws, my body contorting, nails raking down the hovercraft's claw. But it's no use. I rise, my blood sprayed across my body like red paint across a canvas. I'm pulled, up, up, up. And just as I see a smear of dawn on the horizon, I'm hurled into darkness once again. My breath hitches as I hear the snap. Dirt showers into my mouth, and I hear a systematic banging. I'm in a coffin! They're nailing me in! I scream, throat raw, but nobody hears me…

And then I'm alone, suffocating quietly, worms and maggots writhing in the wounds in my stomach, happily eating my stomach lining. I sink deeper and deeper into the ground like I'm made of metal, until the dirt bores into my eyes and the world winks out.

I wake up screaming.

 _Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male_

 _7:21 AM_

There's a gaping hole in my mind. Vague memories of frightened eyes and the scent of prey. I snapped back into memory in front of the shaking girl from eight. It does not take a genius to realize what I was doing. That is not what alarms me. What alarms me is my total lack of memory. A black hole, eating up my mind, a gaping abyss, a chunk of yesterday just _gone._

 _ONE FISH TWO FISH RED FISH BLUE FISH_

It scares me.

I used to think I was above terror. I used to think I feared nothing, that there was nothing in the world that could bring me to my knees.

Now I know I am wrong.

 _ONE FISH TWO FISH RED FISH BLUE FISH_

"Up and at 'em!"

The horrible, squeaky voice of our escort pierces my ears. I groan and heave myself up, reluctantly untangling the sheets wrapped around my. I throw on the clothes lying in a neat pile at the foot of my bed and stagger out, eyes chilly. The escort flinches away from me and runs to Teryn's side, chattering all too loudly. Pathetic.

 _ON-O-ONE FISH… T-TWO… RED… ONE… BLUE TWOREDBLUETWOFISHSEABLOODPAINTEARS-_

 _A shriveled child is strapped to a chair, body pulsing with electricity._

 _He is screaming._

So much blood. It's everywhere.

I blink and then it's gone. Teryn lets out a shrill squawk, staring at me in equal amounts terror and apprehension. I bare my teeth at her, snarling. She stares at me for a long second before whipping around and heading down the stairs to the dining room. I follow her, feet slapping against the floor.

I eat like an animal. Fitting, because I am one.

 _Zap!_

 _The boy writhes in the chair, moaning, his mind a shattered, pathetic, feeble copy of it's former glory._

 _RedFishREDfishREDFISH_

I groan aloud and fall face-first into my parfait.

Everything is so dull and blurry. The sky is a mishmash of black and white. The blood is black and white too. Everything is so dismal. So gray. The weight of it makes me want to shed a tear. The world is stark, bleached of color. There is so little life here.

Less.

Less.

Less.

Always less. Always stifled, always gray. Always lesser. That is me, that is all of us, born and tied in bonds of blood.

Strange thoughts dance in my head is the gray leeches away. I groan as another bout of psycho leaves me, limp, swaying. I can feel the tendrils of oblivion curling around my brain. The world flashes black.

And it's dark. Dark and cold and lonely and broken. The sky weeps for me.

I open my eyes and there's a knife in my hand, the point of which is sifting through the insides of a dummy. I blacked out again.

This is not good.

This isn't good at all.


	26. Private Sessions, Part One

**A/N: I was going to make this a full chapter but I decided that there was no way I could continue it after where I left out without seeming completely unrealistic. If you want me to clarify why after reading, shoot me a PM and I'll tell you, as I'm too lazy to type it all right now. I've got some news at the bottom I'd like you to read. Thanks.**

 _Pilofa Silvennoinen Junior Gamemaker_

I pick at my nails as we wait, silently cursing the bright artificial lights melting my makeup, leaving a soggy pastel puddle dripping down my sharp, lovingly enhanced cheekbones. "Ew, that's gross!" Marmalade hisses, batting at me with sharp violet fingers. I hiss in anger and push her away. Her wig quivers with indignity. "You should show more respect towards your elders." She hisses. I grin smugly at her. "I'm not going to respect someone who spreads herself on bread." I laugh. Marmalades eyes widen and she opens her mouth to spit another stupid "respect your elders" bomb at me, when a white-faced Avox slips in through the doorway, balancing a platter of fresh fruit and sausages with shaky hands. She must be a new one. But food is food.

"Excellent!" I cheer, bouncing out of my chair and practically dancing over to her. I grab a sausage and throw it into my mouth, letting out a strangled cheer when it hits my tongue. Marmalade gags. I open my mouth and show her the contents of it.

She is not pleased.

I grab a handful of pineapple and return to my plush velvet seat, taking a moment to shoot the cute redhead sitting a few seats away a wink, which he returns in kind. I think his name is… Bartaemus? Artaemus? It doesn't matter. By the end of the night, we'll have consumed so much wine that nobody will remember anyone's name. Alcohol is the best memory eraser.

I pop a pineapple into my mouth and startle when I hear the static crackle from the loudspeaker.

"The private training sessions are to commence!"

I grin. The Career guys are quite often very, _very_ hot. Some of the outlier guys from working districts such as Seven and Nine are ripped too. And even if they turn out not to be, the Career boys are usually enough to quench my hot guy thirst.

"Dowry, Mason." You may now enter." The voice drones. I pull my clipboard and pencil on to my lap, eager.

Mason strides in and I whistle, appreciated. His skin is a warm gold, his arms ringed with muscles, and I'm totally feeling that sandy hair and those sky-colored eyes. He spots me and grins, eyes flashing. I wiggle my fingers at him and he smirks, winking in response.

Marmalade opens her mouth, looking affronted. Mason grins at her, too, and walks confidently over to the weapons station. He grabs a sword, makes sure I'm looking, and falls upon the dummy with an ornate ferocity. He hacks at it for a few minutes until he's dismissed.

"I think I'm burning up."

 _Suggested Score: 12 9_

 _Notes: Hot hot hot! Somebody better give me some ice real quick._

Chablis is next, and there's definitely something up with her. She snivels and cries and barely dabs at her arm with the camouflage brush before descending into a puddle of sobs. But her eyes spit fire.

 _Suggested Score: 2_

 _Notes: What are you hiding?_

Taurus swaggers into the room and immediately dismembers a dummy. He's cute, in sort of a rugged, bad-boy way.

He stops being cute when he chucks an axe at the force field.

 _Suggested Score: 10_

 _Notes: You're a dick. Hope you die in the Bloodbath._

Venie is next, and she acts in a manner similar to Taurus, which is immediately heading over to the weapons station without a word of acknowledgement for their benevolent Capitol. The nerve. She fires three arrows into the target, hitting the bullseye with one and the other two hitting the inner ring. She practices with a dagger for a little bit, and when she walks out, the dummy is worse off then when she started.

 _Suggested Score: 9_

 _Notes: Every heard of shampoo?_

Tesla stumbles in, almost as if coming in here's a complete accident and he's just looking for the bathroom or something. He blinks up at us owlishly, and turn away. He heads over to the electronic stations and fiddles with wires for a few minutes. I yawn and lean back, sipping lazily at my wine, when I hear a crackle and the lights all snuff out in the exact same time. I shoot up, slopping wine all over myself.

When we manage to get the lights back on, he's gone.

 _Suggested Score: Jeez, I have no idea. Let the higher-ups deal with this one._

 _Notes: Well played._

Futura paces in with a frigid expression. She heads to the electronics station and picks up a conductor.

And then she puts it down.

She walks towards us, eyes icy.

"Do you care? Even a little?"

She pauses for a second, studying our faces.

"I thought not."

And then she leaves.

I put my wineglass down.

 _Suggested Score: 10_

 _Notes: When will you learn your actions have consequences?_

Maximus is next, and I have to say I'm surprised at his cold manner. He certainly showed no self-restraint during the Reapings, and that's all he's doing now. Reining it in. Booo-oring. At least he's hot.

He calls for a trainer to join him and they spare, trident-against-trident. He beats the low and medium-level trainers easily and puts up a long fight against the high-level trainer until he has to leave. The trainer was gaining the upper hand, but it wasn't an official win nor an official lose.

 _Suggested Score: 9_

 _Notes: Lighten up. Whatever happened to the guy from the reapings?_

Serena neither floats nor drifts into the room, unlike our typical, waifish four girls. She's is basically living muscle, far from the Career girls so far- if Chablis even counts as a Career girl. She picks up a trident and spars with a medium-high level trainer for a few minutes before she gets bored and disarms him. To our great amusement, she spends the rest of the session painting greenish-blue waves up her arms. Not typical Career behavior, yes, but if you have a talent, why not flaunt it? Serena definitely had a talent.

 _Suggested Score: 9, maybe 10?_

 _Notes: You've got my vote. Just remember to keep your head in the game, and you've got this in the bag._

Nyso is a timid figure, pointed nose quivering, eyes bloodshot. He spends a few minutes on the edible plants test, doing terribly, when Gwydion next to me makes the mistake of laughing out loud.

It seems his laughter is infectious, and it quickly spreads. Nyso's checks flush deep scarlet, and he runs over to the weapons station, grabbing a knife and stomping over to the dummies with an ugly snarl.

The thud of a dummy's head hitting the ground is enough to silence us.

 _Suggested Score: 7_

 _Notes: I wasn't expecting that._

Hesiodia struts in, clad in a purple slip hardly appropriate for a girl of fifteen to don. She smirks at us, and the wine bubbles in my stomach. I desperately try to think of a synonym for strut as she walks over to the weapons station and leaps on a dummy. She pokes at it before walking backwards off of it. She bows dramatically, winks, and flounces off.

 _Suggested Score: 2_

 _Notes: Well, at least you're confident in yourself._

Preston shuffles in, steps dragging on the floor. He walks over to the edible plants station, and gloomily takes the test, receiving a perfectly acceptable score of 81.29.

 _Suggested Score: 5_

 _Notes: You outer district kids are so boring._

Quinn bounces in next, a surprisingly forced smile on her face. Her pained, stretched grin widens at the sight of us. She heads over to the snares station and sets up a snare. Then she ties a fisherman's knot. And then she leaves, still smiling painfully.

 _Suggested Score: 5_

 _Notes: Well that was anticlimactic._

Gareth's gait is awkward. He flashes us a quick smile and heads over to the weapons station and grabs an axe. He hacks at the dummy with a set face, carving divots in stiff leather. He nods stiffly at us and walks out, looking mortified.

 _Suggested Score: 7_

 _Notes: Don't be shy. That wasn't half bad!_

Heavenly is next, and I'm relieved to see her walk is that of a girl with a purpose, not of a high, staggering idiot who keeps mentioning invisible, spider-shaped clouds. She heads over to the weapons station and grabs an axe, chucking it at the target three times before shrugging and heading over to the camouflage station to paint her body in warm shades of twisted bark brown.

 _Suggested Score: 6_

 _Notes: Are you sure you aren't on morphling? Maybe you should be…_

"Has it gotten hot in here?" I whisper when Ajax comes in. Damn, that boy is _fine._ He sees me fanning my face and grins up at me, reminiscent of Mason from before. Ajax isn't as hot as Mason, but Ajax is an outer district tribute, which means him being this hot catches me off-guard and I appreciate it more. I think he throws some knives or something. Who cares? He's smoking.

 _Suggested Score: 100! Fine, fine, 8._

 _Notes: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_

Cajsa comes in and does some edible plants or something. Whatever. I doodle a picture of Ajax on my notepad.

 _Suggested Score: 4_

 _Notes: Who are you again?_

Oh god. Oh god. He killed them. Rodrick _killed_ them. He asks for an Avox and just… murders them. Stabs them. Over. And over. And over. Blood. So much blood… Thick splatters of brilliant scarlet. Oh god. Oh god. I want to go home. I want to go home. This isn't like the Games. This isn't like the games at all. I want to go home.

 _Suggested Score:_

 _Notes:_

 **A/N: Okay, so you should know is that Microsoft word decided it was time to go gently into this dark night. I managed to copy and paste my files into Google Drive, but I won't be able to write again until I get Microsoft word back. This could be a while, so I wanted to give you guys a heads up.**


	27. Private Sessions, Part Two

**A/N: The for-I mean, GONE references are strong in this one. Also, Microsoft word fixed itself! How cool is that? Ily Microsoft word. MWAH. Now, without further ado, I present my LONGEST CHAPTER EVER! YEAAAAAAH!**

 _Marmalade DeFranc, Senior Gamemaker_

Everything goes to hell after Richard dismembers that Avox. Pilofa bursts into tears. Pestilence pukes. Mortimer just straight up leaves. And the rest of us tear our hair out and watch in stark terror as peacekeepers rush in to detain him.

Parvati stands up, and her imposing presence causes all of us to fall still as the Peacekeepers drag Rodrick out. "Silence!" She hisses, normally composed face wild with fury. "This will be continued tomorrow." She sneers, whipping out of the room the second her sentence ends, leaving us to fall back into disarray as soon as her heel disappears.

I grab Pilofa's elbow and pull her out of the hodgepodge. Pilofa is an annoying brat, but I can't just leave her to be suffocated by the crowd. I've never seen Pilofa this way before. Scared. Shaking. Vulnerable. She's always so proud. So strong. The fact that the always outspoken Pilofa seems to have shut down scares me far more than Rodrick's bloody murder. Then again, I've never been that fazed by bloodshed. I grew up in the Capitol after all, a place where murder is sexualized, glorified, and used to make a profit via television and the occasional plagiarizing t-shirt.

I hate it.

The Capitol is my home, and it will never stop being my home. But it's ruled by tyrants, tyrants who brainwash and nullify citizens taught to bow to whoever's in charge, no matter what kind of iron fist they rule by. They advertise child murder, they raise taxes to incomprehensible heights, they set ridiculous laws into place so more fat dollars will fall into their greasy hands, they bribe and blackmail and cling to power like spoiled toddlers refusing to release their toys. I _despise_ their insufferable preening and flocking that masks a malevolent demeanor. There's not a speck of good in the government of Panem, even if Panem as a whole is a beautiful place.

Yes, I'm a rebel. No, it's not something I publicly advertise. Why would I? I would be hanged. No, I would be tortured for information, and then just plain tortured. And no, no one suspects. I'm just a harmless, elderly, albeit grumpy senior gamemaker, around only because the gamemakers can't be entirely young blood. The only thing I do that would even cause a single eyebrow to raise is visiting Seven every weekend. I tell all the disbelievers that my extremely elderly mother lives there, and I need to bring her her expensive Capitol medication and watch over her during the weekends.

My mother died ten years ago.

Pilofa swoons and faints rather dramatically. I curse and drag Pilofa along, conflicting emotions warring deep within me. Pilofa would rather die than admit it, but we're kin. Only by marriage, but it definitely counts for something. I'm her aunt. And that means there's no way I can just leave her to wake up confused and alone in my apartment. But the risks of bringing someone like Pilofa to Jaystown is exceptionally high.

But what else can I do?

I make my decision.

Pilofa Silvennoinen is coming with me to Jaystown.

Town of fugitives, outlaws…

And rebels.

 _Dreemurr Dionades, Head Mutt Creator and Gamemaker_

 _A day later_

We've regrouped, no longer scattered puzzle pieces. We are a whole again, and I'm thankful. Without of my fellow gamemakers surrounding me, I am incomplete. Fundamentally flawed. Fundamentally _broken._

I believe in Fortuna, the roman goddess of fate and luck. I believe she has led me to discover my talent in mutt creation and suffer for it, as all geniuses must suffer. She has led me to meet the gamemaking community too, and I could not be more greatful to her. I would be nowhere without them. A puzzle piece in the wind.

A shaky voice blares out of the loudspeakers, snapping me out of my thoughts. I quickly vow to make an offering to Fortuna tonight and quickly turn to the loudspeakers as it declares that the Private Sessions would resume with the District 9 Female. I turn my attention to the nine female and absentmindedly grab for my clipboard.

Teryn Gardner is really nothing special. She hits the dummy a few times with her pitchfork. She cuts it a few times, but mostly the prongs just bounce off. Her brow knits and she practically stomps over to the edible plants station and preforms dismally.

 _Suggested Score: 5_

 _Notes: I shall pray for you, Teryn Gardner, even if you wouldn't make the most exciting victor._

Blair Harcourt has not been blessed by Fortuna- then again, none of the tributes have been. He's a scrawny thing, but manages to smile nervously at us before heading over to the edible plants station, taking the test, receiving a 86.2, and then heading over to the miscellaneous bin to tie a noose from rope. He leaves looking slightly more confident in himself.

 _Suggested Score: 4_

 _Notes: Have faith._

Crystaille's grin practically eclipses her face as she stumbles in, choppy bangs bouncing on her forehead. She shoots arrows clumsily, but with extreme enthusiasm, and then makes a request of us. We're befuddled, but we grant it.

Two minutes later, we're cheering and clapping as Crystaille holds her own on a bucking bronco simulator.

 _Suggested Score: 6_

 _Notes: I feel more energized just looking at you._

Richard Sherman is smiling, but quiet, unlike the energized Crystaille before him. His performance is pitiful. He looks troubled, preoccupied.

 _Suggested Score: 3_

 _Notes: What's on your mind?_

Richard's preoccupation bothers me, for reasons I cannot quite explain. But before I can dissect my emotions, Finlay Ardun sweeps in, bold and bouncing. She pulls herself up into the ropes course, the first tribute this year to do so. She practically flies across the room, her small fingers experienced on rough rope. Her clear bird calls bounce off the walls.

 _Suggested Score: 6_

 _Notes: Every tribute has a nickname so far, except you. Mason is the King of Hearts, Venie is Lady Nightshade, Quinn is Panem's Lightbulb. Perhaps you are to be The Songbird._

Acid bubbles in my throat as Henry limps in, face twisted with anguish, sorrow, and open fear. He is no longer the bubbling boy from the parade. He is utterly broken. I do not see what he does, as I am too confused by the sorrow and rage I feel on his behalf.

Rage at…

 _Suggested Score: 1_

 _Notes: I wish they hadn't caught you._

Alicia is subdued as well, no doubt wracked by grief over Henry's crippling and loss of chance. She takes the edible plants test and scores the best yet, 93.62. She staggers out of the room.

 _Suggested Score: 5_

 _Notes: This isn't fair. These people are my family. Not these insignificant tributes. Why do I feel so deeply for them._

I stare at my traitorous words and fall upon them with a savage fury, erasing them until the paper is full of holes and dusted with pink specks. I sigh heavily and pack up, gathering up my papers and things. I turn in my suggested scores to Head Gamemaker Parvati Cipher and walk out.

Every step I take drags.

 _That afternoon_

"Laaaadies and gentlemen! The moment you've all been waiting for! The revealing of the scores! First up, we have District One! I'm sure all the ladies out there will be pleased to know that the King of Hearts has earned a nine! Everyone give it up for Mason Dowry! Next up, we have the, err… _unique_ Chablis Brochetto. Ouuuuch. Unfortunately, Chablis has only earned a two. Well, it could be worse!"

 _Mason Dowry: A nine. A nine. Those idiots! A blind man can see I deserve an eleven! I DEMIND A RESCORE!_

 _Chablis Brocetto: Perfect. The final touch to my grand façade. My cherry on top. They'll never see me coming._

"Everyone put your hands together for your favorite bad boy, because Taurus Black has earned a ten! Hear that, folks? That's the sound of victory in Taurus's hands! But of course we can't forget the deadly Lady Nightshade, can we? Venie Hadley has earned a nine! Way to go, Belladonna!"

 _Taurus Black: It isn't enough._

 _Venie Hadley: Lady Nightshade. What a ridiculous name. And of course I tied Diana. I'd rather have less then her then be tied. Being seen as a ripoff or a copy of Diana would be… problematic._

"Our favorite genius duo from district three is up next! Everyone's favorite shy boy Tesla has earned himself… a one? What? And, uh, Futura has a 10. Okayletsmoveonnowfolks!"

 _Tesla Lumen_ : _I suppose I should be flattered he's surprised. I knocked out the power. Doesn't that count for something? I wonder what Futura did to get a 10…_

 _Futura Light: Goddammit._

"My, my! Maximus Vulcan has earned himself a 10, tying with Taurus! And it looks like Serena, everyone's favorite girl next door, has earned a 10 too! A little birdie told me Maximus and Serena have a bit of a rivalry. I imagine getting the same score has inflamed it!"

 _Maximus Vulcan:_ Damn right, you stupid fool. A ten is a perfectly acceptable score, I'm just pissed because Serena got one too.

 _Serena Melenese:_ Elvira will be pleased. Is it bad I still couldn't care less?

"Well well well. The spitfire that is Nyso Torrent has managed to earn a 7! Well done, Nyso! Showed some more respect for the Capitol, did you? Well, good for you! And as for Hesiodia… well, she's earned, well, uh, a two."

 _Nyso Torrent: I didn't do it for you._

 _Hesiodia Trince:_ "WHAT?!"

"The tributes from Six are anything _but_ similar in personality- after all, Quinn's nickname is 'Panem's Lightbulb,' while Preston's is 'Pluto!' But obviously the two have _something_ in common, as they've both scored fives! Good job, Quinnston!"

 _Preston Oxford: Quinnston?_

 _Quinn Jennings: I can't breathe. I don't think laughing this hard is safe._

"District Seven has an impressive pair this year! Gareth has managed a seven! Way to go! And Heavenly's scored a six! I think I'm safe in saying that the Seven pair have a decent shot at the crown this year!"

 _Gareth Barkely: Let's hope so._

 _Heavenly Aquarius: I wouldn't care about being worse if I had some morphling._

"Part of me wonders if Ajax Walker is more deserving of the title "King of Hearts" then Maximus- He's been dazzling Capitol women since Day 1 and apparently he's dazzling the gamemakers too! Ajax has earned an eight! You heard me right, folks! Cajsa's showing is less impressive, but it could be much worse then a 4! So don't feel down, Cajsa fans!"

 _Ajax Walker: Allllll riiiiiight!_

 _Cajsa Varis: Cajsa fans? What Cajsa fans?_

"Uh-oh! It appears the dark horse of these games have earned a 0! Whatever could've happened during the sessions? Maybe Rodrick will give us a hint during his interviews… and Teryn has earned a 5. A 5 is perfectly respectable, but I can't help but admit I thought she had more mettle."

 _Rodrick Olivier: OneFishTwoFishRedFishBluuuUuuUUUueeeEe_

 _Teryn Gardner: Mettle? I'll show you my mettle, Capitol scum!_

"Well shoot the horse and slap me silly. Simple farmgirl Crystaille has earned a six! And Blair has earned a 4! District 10 may not be nothing special, but it's tributes are certainly surpassing our expectations!"

 _Blair Harcourt: That's so offensive I don't know where to begin._

 _Crystaille Alexander: A six! I knew cantering would count for something!"_

"Richard, Richard, Richard. We know you can do better! A three isn't the worse score, but you're capable of so much more. We're all rooting for you! Prove yourself! And of course, the lovely Finlay has earned a six as we all expected after she revealed her talent in ropes during training. Richard needs to shape up, but Finlay is in great shape!"

 _Richard Sherman: Every time I close my eyes, Penny is there._

 _Finlay Ardun: They believed in me?_

"And here we have our final district. Unfortunately, it appears Henry has earned a one. Sorry, buddy! Shouldn't you have gotten some cuteness points? And Alicia has earned a 5- an excellent score for someone so small!"

 _Henry Wade: There's a hole in my foot, idiot. I'm not winning any cuteness points anytime soon._

 _Alicia Marleen: There should have been something I could have done for him. What does a five matter when my best friend has a hole in his foot?_


	28. Interviews

**A/N: Okay, serious talk before we begin:**

 **This story is really important to me. It's a mark of what I can do and what I'm capable of. It's my first piece of real writing, and I'm so, so proud of it. And, of course, I want to thank every one of you who've commented and supported me throughout this. But that being said, it's extremely frustrating when people read and don't review. Getting reviews makes my day, guys. I smile like an idiot whenever I see a new review. And even though I know you guys are reading, it takes like two minutes to drop a review.** ** _Please_** **don't just review the chapters your characters are in. You don't need to review every chapter, but if you only review the chapters your tributes are in, then you'll probably end up disappearing if/when they die. So please, leave a review. I don't care what it is. An extremely long review analyzing the motives of every character? Awesome! "I liked it :D!" Fanfreakingtastic! "This is so confusing I hate you gtfo"? EPIC! Just review. That's all I'm asking. :D Please keep in mind this isn't aimed at a specific person, a lot of you are doing this.**

 **Also, Pestilence is still open, and I still need a ton of submissions, so please submit! There's no story if there's no tributes. Thanks!**

 **Now, after this huge freaking A/N, let's move on to this huge freaking chapter! (2539 words, holy shiii-yit)**

 **(submit to pestilence)**

 _Venie Hadley, District 2 Female_

My palms are sweating like crazy. I rub them against my deep blue dress, and instantly regret it as liquid handprints form on the skirt. I scowl.

"Lady Nightshade." What a ridiculous nickname. I'm no more a poison flower then I am Taurus. But people see what they want to see. And if people want to see me as a cold, soulless murder wreathed in poison blooms, then so be it. Whatever earns me the most sponsors.

I watch as Mason awkwardly brags to the audience about the havoc he's going to wreck on the arena as Euphore picks at his nails. Euphore makes a witty joke in response to Mason's fumbling, semi-vivid description of blood (although the way he's describing it makes it sound more like Tabasco sauce,) and the buzzer sounds. Mason stands up and shoots the audience finger guns before rushing backstage. "Beat that!" He brags, flexing his muscles. It's a shame they're existent, otherwise I'd be teasing him about it. Chablis rolls her eyes. Her interview went horribly, as expected, with her crying for nearly three solid minutes until her buzzer rang. _Miraculously,_ the tears disappeared the second she stepped backstage. My lips quirk down into a tiny frown. She catches my eye and stiffens, all the blood draining out of her face. She whips around, golden hair sweeping over her shoulders and sending a whiff of mango-scented shampoo my way.

"Venie Hadley, come up!"

I stiffen. It's my turn. Now I'm the one with the white, shocked face. I can feel Chablis's amber eyes burning into my back. I shoot her a sour look before standing up and walking onstage, my wispy, now sweat-stained dress swaying on my hips. I'm greeted by the artificial glare of what seems like a thousand lightbulbs and the endless snapping of cameras. I squint. I'm positive my makeup is melting now, disfiguring me to look a thousand times worse. I tug at my dress, wishing it didn't show so much skin. I feel like a poundcake.

"Venie!" Euphore purrs, dark green eyes drinking me in. I fidget uncomfortably but manage a smile and sit down. I absentmindedly run my fingers up and down the velvet armrest as he begins to speak.

"So, Venie, a little birdie told me you're the sister of victor Diana Hadley. What can you tell us about being related to her? I bet the two of you are really similar. You're going for the 'femme fatale' angle like her, right?"

I freeze and silently curse out that stupid interviewer. The last thing I want to talk about is Diana, especially during this pivotal point in my life. A hot surge of jealousy rises inside me. This is my life, not hers! And the words just… come out.

"Shouldn't you be asking about me? I'm the tribute, after all."

Euphore freezes and blinks as if he's been slapped. Despite knowing that I've probably destroyed any sponsors by refusing to pander to the audience, I can't help but smirk. I feel… powerful. I feel big.

"O-of course!" He stammers. "I-I just, I assumed… your sister, I mean…" He trails off. He looks utterly pathetic. I can't stop. I'm over the moon. "You assumed I would rather talk about my sister then myself?" I ask icily. "Because while I love my sister, I am my own individual human, after all, with my own personality." He stares up at me, petrified. I wonder why I was uncomfortable with him before. "Oh, did you expect a ripoff Diana? I suppose a lot of you did expect us to be the same. News flash: We're _not._ I'm my own person, and I'm no femme fatale. I'm not going to sleep or seduce my way to victory. No, I'm going to _earn_ it. I'm Venie, not Diana, and I'm going to rip my way through these games and leave a trail of blood behind me."

And then I realize something.

I'm not going to lose any sponsors.

Because they're cheering.

"Venie Hadley, everybody!" I yell, drunk on applause. I feel giddy as I thrust my hands out and their cheering envelops me.

I found my place.

Maybe I am Lady Nightshade after all.

 _Preston Oxford, District 6 Male_

Venie struts backstage, feral pride gleaming in her eyes. I wince and lean away from her poisonous aura. That girl has always scared me, but her outburst onstage has lead me to believe that the girl is going to be the death of me.

"She needs to chill." Quinn mutters into my ear. I startle and then laugh in surprise. I crane my head around and there she sits, dark green eyes glowing dimly in the darkness. "You think?" I ask. Quinn grins and leans backwards, feet scuffing the ground. "I'm going to rip my way through these games and leave a trail of blood behind me." Quinn mocks. "Drama queen, much?" I push her playfully. "It would be funnier if she didn't know 50 different ways to kill me."

Strangely enough, I'm able to joke about death now. Just a few days ago I was a sobbing mess. (I still kinda am, but I don't cry in public, which is a start.) I'm not sure what exactly happened. Maybe it's Quinn's cheerful presence, maybe it's shock, or maybe it's just the fact that I've shed so many tears over the past few days that my supply is drying up. Whatever the reason, it means my eyes aren't wet at every given time, so I'm grateful, grateful that I'm not scared anymore.

Quinn shrugs. "Watcha gonna do?" She asks playfully, and topples over in her chair, squeaking in surprise. "Maybe not collapse a folding chair?" I suggest 'helpfully.' She shoots me a dirty look and pulls herself up, shaking out her red mane. My skin tingles and I forcefully drag my eyes away from her swaying hair.

We both turn our attention to the stage in time to hear the buzzer ring. Taurus walks backstage, lips twisted in a feral smirk. He leers at us- _us_ being the clusterfuck of outliers. Quinn sticks out her tongue at his retreating back. We turn to the stage again.

Futura walks onstage, cold and professional in an ivy-green suit. She nods at the audience and she and Euphore begin to chat. Her responses are clipped and short and eventually Euphore gives up on getting her to babble mindlessly about how much she enjoys the capitol and lets her take the reins. She makes a pretty convincing speech about why she should be sponsored and supported throughout her run in the arena. The buzzer goes off and she heads backstage, looking relieved and wiping sweat from her brow.

Tesla is next, and his interview is nearly painful. He stares at his feet and talks agonizingly slowly the entire time. The gleam in his eye tells me he has something up his sleeve, but I honestly wish he'd just hurry up and reveal it.

Serena floats onstage in a misty dress the color of sea foam. Emeralds shine in her thick brown curls as she shoots benevolent smiles at the audience. Her angle is that of a girl-next-door, but at the same time a trained killer. She excels at it. My stomach twists.

Maximus goes for the bloodthirsty angle, just like Mason and Taurus, but there's something far more restrained about him. The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up just looking at him. Something tells me he's far more intelligent and far more vengeful then Mason and Taurus combined and getting on his bad side would be a very bad idea. Everything about him makes me want to run for the hills.

Hesiodia seems to think that the more obnoxious she is, the more sponsors she gains. She doesn't seem to hear the boos as she walks onstage and basically brags about herself the entire interview. I breathe a sigh of relief when she struts offstage.

Nyso is next, and his interview is a complete and utter disaster to rival Hesiodia's. He just sits there. That's it. Euphore asks him a few questions but eventually he just trails off and stares and Nyso in bewilderment. Finally, he signals for the interview to end early and Nyso storms offstage, expression contorted in anger.

And then it's Quinn's turn. She jumps up when they call her name, looking both excited and nervous. She spins around in her mermaid-style dress and waves cheekily at me before running onstage. I smile at her retreating back. A blush paints my cheeks scarlet.

I watch her attentively as she and Euphore banter playfully over Capitol food and fashions. There's no weight to their conversation, and over time you can see it begins to grate on her. Her brows pull down, her lip juts out and her dark green eyes narrow to thin slits. I know Quinn. She's funny and a jokester, but she likes to be taken seriously sometimes. And Euphore definitely doesn't take her seriously.

But before she can put him in his place, Venie-style, the buzzer sounds, and she walks offstage. And then it's my turn.

Remember what I said about not being scared anymore?

Yeah, just pretend that never happened.

I'm _petrified._

My knees knock together, my feet are glued to the ground, and I'm gasping for breath. Liquid fear burns through my veins. I'm utterly frozen. My skin tingles with static electricity. More like _passive_ electricity. I'm not moving anytime soon.

Quinn huffs and pulls me up. I lean on her awkwardly and the next thing I know, she's pushed me onstage and I'm blinking like a newborn under fluorescent light. I silently curse Quinn and stumble over to the guest chair on wobbly legs. I plop down and practically melt into the red leather. I'm emotionally exhausted and so hungry I could scream. I just want this to be done. I would probably fall asleep on this chair if not for all of the bright lights flashing in my face.

"Preston!" Euphore greets me, a big smile on his face, like we're old friends. I grin weakly in response and bury myself deeper in folds of velvet. "We've been watching you throughout your time training. How are you enjoying it?" "It's fine." I say wearily.

Our conversation continues like this, with Euphore spitting out pointless questions and me responding in the most simplistic, boring way ever. I can sense the audience shifting, tiring of our mindless babble. I'm just way too exhausted to pick up the conversation. Finally the buzzer sounds and I stumble backstage feeling like I've just lost a war.

After that, the interviews fly by as I sink in and out of consciousness. Their angles are boring, predictable. Heavenly plays up the batty angle in her ethereal olive gown, no doubt pandering to sponsors. Gareth goes for the famed three S's- strong, silent and surly. Gareth can be surly sometimes, but he's the opposite of _silent._ And as for strong… we'll have to see.

Ajax goes for flirty and charming. He's the most natural out of all of us so far- he _is_ flirty and charming. Cajsa is the determined, motherly protector. I don't know anything about Cajsa, so I can't confirm whether she's being faithful to her traits or not.

Teryn is surly enough to rival Gareth- thought I suspect it's not an act, like Nyso, but less extreme. I'm sure she's earned herself a few sponsors by the time the buzzer dings, though. Rodrick's interview is a total fiasco, because of course it is. He goes further down the bloody route then any of the male careers and nearly causes me to splatter the contents of my stomach on the floor. And then halfway through one of his tangents on the dexterity of human organs, he just… snaps. His eyes go dark. And before the Capitolites can place bets on whether or not he'll string up Euphore like a chicken, he runs backstage.

Crystaille is shaking when they call her name, but manages a weak smile. Her chat with Euphore is mostly vapid, like mine and Quinn's. She doesn't seem to mind. Blair, despite being, like, seventeen- is playing up the cute angle with his mop of messy hair and huge eyes beneath glasses, though the shrewd, cautious way he speaks clues me in to the fact that he doesn't have the mind of a six-year-old like his mentors want us to believe for some reason.

Finlay practically flies onstage in a wispy white gown complete with feathers and wings. She's seemed to gain the nickname of "The Arena's Songbird," and her mentors are clearly playing it up. Euphore has her demonstrate some of her bird calls, and the crowd goes crazy as her clear voice rings around the room. She's got a powerful set of pipes. Richard shows up in casual but still classy clothing, waving awkwardly. He's definitely giving off that "boy-next-door" vibe, which I expect his mentors intended.

Alicia walks in, her face as dry as a bone. She looks tired, and old- decades older then _thirteen._ She sits down in her chair, waves of melancholy rolling off her. Even Euphore falters. After a few attempts at conversation, he trails off and stares gloomily at his shoes. Eventually she walks off, two minutes before the buzzer rings. She doesn't seem to care about the consequences. Henry's interview is, if possible, even more depressing. He's limping, his mouth twisted in an awkward, sad, smile. His eyes glisten with fresh tears.

I turn my head away.

 **A/N: Yooooo guys you know what you should do? You should submit to Pestilence. Great idea, right? :D**


	29. The Night Before: Part One

**A/N: My god. We're so close. I already have the obituaries written for the Bloodbath. I don't know whether to be excited or terrified tbh. Well, here we go! ALSO SUBMIT TO PESTILENCE IT'S STILL OPEN BTW AND THERE'S A LOT OF EMPTY SPOOOTS ~**

 _Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female_

My heart is beating fast- too fast. I bury my head in my pillow, but my head is pulsing with so much pain that I can't imagine I'll ever sleep again. Sweat pours from my pores, wetting the blankets until I'm a sweat-stained, burning mess with a headache for the ages. I swear, my heartbeat's moved to my cranium. My eyes seem to be glued open.

I pull myself from the bed and my stomach heaves. My face twists. Acid eats at my insides. I double up, my lips scrunched into a tiny frown. I don't realize I'm crying until my cheeks are wet.

Something is very, very wrong.

The thought registers in my head right before I double over and puke my guts out.

Sick splatters the ground as my arms tighten around my middle. Acidic tears slip out from beneath my tangled lashes. I barely manage to straighten up before I barf again, green chunks splattering across the ground. I slip in my own puke and manage to skid across the room and out the door. I turn my sick-spotted face to the security cameras, silently pleading.

Ten minutes later, I'm shivering under a blanket. Amara is shivering too, although she isn't hurling. Every few minutes I need to puke, and everytime I do, she flinches. My heart hops like a jitterbug.

"Amara, I think something's wrong." I say hesitantly, after a few minutes of agonizing silence. She jerks up, and I pathetically spit some chunks into the bin. "Other then nerves, you mean?" She worries. I nod. "My heartbeat is really fast…" I say quietly. "I have a big headache. And I can't sleep." Amara's eyes widen, and then, surprisingly, narrow.

And then she says-

Well, she says-

"Did… did you drink regularly in twelve?"

Six minutes later, we've confirmed. I'm dealing with alcohol withdrawal.

"I don't know how this happened." I say in between tears and barf. "I… I just… there was nothing else to eat and drink so we just…" I trail off and wince at how this sounds.

"I'm… I'm not addicted, Amara! We literally didn't have anything else to drink, and, and…"

I hunch over and hurl again, tears dripping from the edges of my eyelashes. "That sounds pathetic." I whisper. Amara sighs and rubs my back comfortingly. My fingernails bite into my thighs.

"I understand, baby." She whispers sadly. "I get it."

I blink up at her, confused. Droplets cling to my lashes. "You're a victor." I say hesitantly. "You can have whatever you want." Amara leans far back into her chair, pointy nose aimed for the ceiling. "I grew up in twelve too, y'know. I was surrounded by poverty my entire life, just like you."

And before I know it, I'm listening to Amara's life story.

"I was a merchant's child, but that doesn't mean I was rich. That's a common Seam misconception about merchant kids, or so I'm told." She begins, the palm of her hand rubbing circles on my back as I retch. "It just meant I starved a little less. I got as little food as everyone else, but while Seam kids got dandelion bread and barely-edible herbs, I got sticky pastries and curls of sugary icing. We didn't have more food. We just had heavier food."

She affectionately ruffles my hair. "We needed tesserae too. Not for food, like the Seam kids, but to trade for necessary items, like soap and thread. We only took about one extra slip, though, so the chances any of us would be reaped were slim."

"But lo and behold, our escort pulled my name out of the bowl. I was petrified, y'know. Nearly pissed my pants on the spot. I was a barrel of tears."

Her long, slim fingers twitch in my thin locks.

"I was a sobbing mess up until the interview where I just… snapped. I was so tired and so done. I couldn't muster up the energy to shed another tear. So I started laughing. Joking. The audience was bewildered by me. Baffled. But it worked. They saw my change of face and decided I was determined enough to win this thing."

"I wasn't, really. I hid in a hole until the final three. My arena was a wheat field, and I got by by curling myself into a ball and keeping myself from starving by pure force of will. It was simply luck that the scarecrow mutts didn't decapitate me, or that the crow mutts didn't peck my eyes out. At the final three, the Gamemakers set the arena on fire and warded us towards the cornucopia. I was with two Careers, the boy from One and the girl from Two. The girl from Two was already wounded, so the boy killed her easily. Then he approached me. I had never been so scared. I leaned away from him and grabbed my pocketknife. I hid it behind my back as he approached me…"

Her face grew taught as her hand retreated. I waited in breathless expectation, so floored I had forgotten to puke.

"He pinned me to the ground and rose his machete, thinking I didn't have a weapon. I gripped the handle of my knife, shut my eyes, and plunged it up. I heard his screech of pain and a thump. I cracked my eyes open and saw him lying on the ground, moaning in pain."

"But I wasn't brave enough to end it."

"I crawled into the cornucopia and sobbed my heart out on the cold metal floor, overflowing with tears and disgust for myself. How could I do this? How could I let him suffer? But anytime I thought about ending it, my entire body froze. I wasn't even thinking of victory. My mind was completely glued to that boy, writhing in pain."

"Human emotion is funny." Says Amara sadly, pulling me into her chest and letting me dry my face on her shirt. "He was a horrible person, the peak of human stupidity and cruelty. But his ordeal made my stomach twist into knots. He murdered three people, and would've murdered me too, but the thought of killing him made my brain scream in protest. So I just leaned up against the cold wall and waited. I prayed. I cried. I think I cussed out the audience at one point. It was all a blur."

"Finally, _finally,_ six hours later, his cannon rung loud and clear and I emerged to scorched prarie, blinking in the sunlight like a mole. The trumpets played. The claws lifted me up. I was free, and yet I couldn't stop thinking of the neat red hole in his stomach, of his writhing and howling. It was a poisonous loop playing in my head…"

The doorbell ringing cuts her off. She startles, like a frightened mouse, and scuttles to it. An avox hands her a capsule, which she passes off to me. I swallow a pill as she instructs me.

My headache doesn't clear immediately, but I stop feeling the surge of nausea, which is good. Amara pats my brow and plants a kiss on my head before leaving, shoulders slumped, fingers twitching.

I sleep on the floor, and think of my mother.

 **A/N: Originally there was going to be one long chapter, but once this hit 1000 words I decided I was better off splitting it into halves. Two chapters until the bloodbath, guys! I'm so scared but so excited at the same time. Thank you for following this story, and I urge you not to stop following it if your character dies. Because A, I'll get pissed, and B, it's kind of a shitty thing to do. Thanks!**

 **((whispers: also submit to pestilence pls))**

 **-Spark**


	30. The Night Before: Part Two

**A/N: God, I am shit incarnate.**

 _Ajax Walker, District 8 Male_

We're all tangled up in one big bed, ignoring the fact that we very well could cease to exist tomorrow as we laugh far too loudly and share popcorn. Preston seems to have lightened up, thank god, though it's worth noting that his eyes are still slightly puffy, and he's not eating as vigorously as Quinn. Then again, _nobody_ eats as vigorously as Quinn.

"Truth or dare, Gareth?" Quinn sings, legs pointed upwards like she's a beetle on her back. Gareth winces and briefly dodges the question by stuffing a handful of pastel macaroons in his mouth. Preston shivers in disgust as Gareth chews loudly. Gareth finally swallows loudly. "Uh… dare?" He stammers. Quinn's face contorts in malicious happiness and Gareth flinches away from her in fear. "Piss out the window!" She says cheerfully and without hesitation. Gareth practically flies off the bed. "No way!" He yells. Quinn grins. "It's a dare!" She chimes. "You haaaaaave to do it!"

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" I chant. Preston joins in hesitantly. Gareth flushes bright red. "Truth!" He screams in frustration. "Truth, truth, _truth!"_ He yells in horror. Quinn pouts. "Fiiiiiine." She whines. I frown. "No fair!"

Quinn leans backwards, contemplating. She pulls up heavy bunches of sheet, almost absentmindedly swaddling herself. "What's the stupidest thing you've ever done for money?" She asks, raising a bushy eyebrow. Gareth snorts. "Easy." He mutters. "My stepsister is kinda rich thanks to her part-time job clerking… but she's a terrible cook, so she paid me to make her lunch…" He winced. "It… didn't turn out very well. She's not the only one bad at cooking." "Descriptioooon!" Quinn whined. "We want drama! We want intrigue! We want _details!"_ Gareth furrows his brow. "All you need to know is that a frying pan ended up wedged in the ceiling and we _still_ haven't gotten it down. We live in a state of constant fear, thinking it'll fall on our heads."

Preston managed a giggle. I snorted. "That's tame!" I laughed. Gareth scowled. "It's all I've got." "Whatever." Quinn says with a casual smile, pulling the box of macaroons from Gareth's hands. "It's my turn." He sings, grasping for the box and popping a cookie into his mouth. "Quinn!" He yells. "Truth or dare?"

Quinn smiles devilishly. "Dare, cowards! Wimps!" Gareth groans in despair. "Can't you think of anything better then _wimps?"_ Quinn swooned back onto the bed. "I didn't exactly have a stellar education- isn't it par for the course for me to have a limited vocabulary?" Gareth rolls his eyes. "That isn't what I meant, shit idiot." He grumbles.

I take this opportunity to chime in. "He meant friends!" I yell skywards. "Buddies, chums, pals! A handheld dictionary is hardly needed to describe us. Nobody asked you to be eloquent, Quinn, just slightly less abrasive, maybe?"

Quinn blinks in surprise, taken off guard for the first time in- ever? Seriously, I think this might have been the first time we took Quinn off guard ever." She quickly snaps out of her mini-funk however, and grins, cheesy as the dusty snacks we munch on. "I'll keep it in mind. Anyways, you guys gonna dare me?"

Gareth grins, flashing huge teeth in our direction. "I dare you to eat your sock!" Quinn's face scrunches up in utter surprise and despair. "Ew!"

"Eat your sock! EAT YOUR SOCK! EAT YOUR SOCK!" We chant, a glorious miasma of conflicted bros coming together in harmony- over a dirty sock. "Fine, I'll deepthroat the sock." She grouses. "But I'm not going to actually digest the little shit!"

"If it smells like feces, that's your fault!" I chime in. "But no, you don't have to actually swallow it. That would probably make a mess out of your liver." Says Preston solemnly. "Leave my liver alone!" Quinn yells passionately. I roll my eyes and shoves the sock into Quinn's mouth.

She stammers and chokes for a few minutes, nose wrinkling at the indescribable oder, but eventually noms on it and pulls it out of her mouth, her cute-ass freckled features rife with despair at the stink. "You guys all suck!" She yells, mouth still infected with scraps of cotton.

Preston rolls his eyes and promptly falls off the bed. It is a grand and dramatic gesture. His fellows- _my_ fellows- take a break to stare at him for a hot second in disbelief and apprehension. Then they- _we_ turn their- _our_ heads and begin to discuss Quinn's liver at an extent again. Preston pouts and for a second the look on his face resembles Preston in the pettiness factor. Then the storm clouds clear and he scrambles up on the bed to diss Quinn's immune system with the rest of us riffraff.

"I cannot believe it is still functioning! That little lass deserves a medal for all her hard work!"

"If you ever refer to my organs with feminine pronouns again, I will give _your_ organs something to worry about!"

"My organs aren't worrywarts like yours! They're total party animals!"

"Maybe Quinn's liver isn't the liver we should be worrying about…"

Quinn sticks out her hands in my direction, eyes glinting under a sizzling electric faux-sun. The limb hangs in limbo for a second, then I grab it. We shake, once, twice, three times, an imperial, businesslike pact. "our livers-" She says, with a grim, solemn air unheard of in the relentlessly lighthearted archive of patented QuinnTones- "Are both absolutely shot to hell."

That's a positive note to end the liver chat on.

We doze in silence for a few minutes. I eat- nay, I gorge. I'm hardly starved, but before the games, I never had food in excess, too worried it would spoil my lean figure, perfect for flinging knives like the dumbass, progress-obsessed vigilante I was. The dumbass I still kinda am. I still want to be the best. But it's not for myself anymore, and that allows me a kind of self-reflection and self-awareness I didn't possess before. I can laugh at myself, not with myself.

And as a remarkably shitty amateur comedian, I understand the distinction more than anyone.

Obviously, staying in shape for the games is important, but I'm naturally skinny and a few days of luxury will hardly reprogram my form. Progress is important, but there's little to no point in it. I can already since my impending death, hanging on the horizon like a fat, heavy cloud, pregnant with misfortune and not a little pain.

I pop a kernel in my mouth. Fuck it. I'm nigh-content.

Chew and swallow.

I am not the Hunter.

 **A/N: Like I said in the beginning, I am shit incarnate. It's been almost a year, and I don't know if anyone is still reading this woeful tale of horny teenagers and painful death. I wouldn't blame you if you weren't. All I can say, really, Is that I'm sorry. I went back to school in January, and it sucked major ass for many reasons. The curriculum was indecipherable to me, my grandfather's health took a sharp turn for the worst, and I became, unfortunately, used to random breakdowns in bathroom stalls.** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. **You probably don't care, and I shouldn't be pushing this on you. It's not an excuse- I had obligations, and I failed them, and that's on me- Just an explanation.**

 **I'm not abandoning this story. It isn't very good. My characterization is wonky at BEST. Plenty of my readers are no longer reading. It took over eight months for me to give you a chapter, and it was neither long nor well written. But I'm not abandoning it anyways. And I'm not going to half-ass it either. ):D** **ß** **the parentheses is a unibrow! Rest assured I do not have a unibrow, it just looked cute.**

 **Please review. I'm really excited to get this started again, even if it seems like I've fallen into a fic funk.**

 **Thank you for your time,**

 **SparkALeah**

 **PS: I don't know if I'll be doing another SYOT after this, but if I am, It'll be Pestilence. For now, Pestilence is on hiatus.**


	31. Tubes and Countdown

**A/N: SHAZAM! I told you I wouldn't wait another eight months to get this chapter out, and I delivered. It looks like my suspicions are correct, however- Most of my old reviewers are no longer reading/reviewing this story. I cannot actually blame them- it's just disappointing. If you are reading this still,** ** _please_** **drop a review. Every time I get one I squeal and do the snoopy dance from peanuts. Every review makes my day, so please be considerate and drop one off! Now, without further ado, let's move on to the chapter!**

 **** _Mason Dowry, District 1 Male_

My entire body is tingling. My nerve endings are alight, my skin prickling with goose bumps, my breath short and chest heaving. I've never felt so excited in my entire life, and I seriously doubt I'll ever feel so enthused again. Kai's here to see me off, give me some final parting words- as _if_ I need them. Kai's been robbed of talent for ages, all of his skills and prestige sloughing off him as the years ticked on. That trick with my paints was just that. A trick. A dirty move. And it won't happen again.

I can't kill Kai. But the next person who tries to confuse or aggravate me will be very, very eligible for death. And I am ready, ready ready to rain it down upon them.

Kai exhales. "I'd tell you to do your best, and keep yourself contained, but I actually don't give a flying spangled fuck. Just go kill something. Maybe it will soothe your temper."

I shoot him a sardonic smile, and nothing else. Actions speak louder than words, and axes are practically howls.

I enter the tube and inhale as the glass slides shut. The last thing I see before I glide up and reach my peak is Kai's solemn, heavy face peering up at me, flawless and sad.

What's he so melancholy about? Doesn't he realize he's going to get to watch me win the Hunger Games?

Selfish bastard.

 _Venie Hadley, District 2 Female_

My stomach cramps as I lean my head against the cold glass. It settles me only slightly, the pressure and temperature just barely anchoring me. The chasm is so visible, and I'm so, so close to it.

No, no, fuck that. I'm Lady Nightshade, (yeah, I've begun to embrace the nickname, so what) a fighter, a killer, a thinker and tinkerer and revamper and rehasher. My job isn't to pull out my own old wounds and study them in the dark, it's to fuck with everyone else's. I have no time to think about myself in anything but the positives.

Self love is hard, but, amazingly, I can find myself inching ever so near to that unattainable goal.

My relentless preening and philosophizing- seriously, Venie, get a grip, you're trying to be tactical here- is interrupted by Pompone, who's speaking softly and carrying a big stick. Literally. She likes to take her mantras _really_ seriously.

"Remember what you came here to do. And remember that you have the spine to do it. You've got nerves of steel, girl, even if you yourself like to deny it in favor of wallowing in self pity."

I nod, stone-faced, dry-eyed, and ready to enter- but before I get the chance, she swings the cane and it hits my thigh with a dry thwack. I don't hiss, or scream, or even bite at my lips. The first time I did that, Pompone fell upon me with all the fury and disgusting self-righteousness of a battalion of angels. The less pain you show, the longer your break. Until that vengeful glorified-twig strikes again.

My scalp itches and crawls.

The space where my hair touches my neck is coated in sweat.

My mouth is dry.

I smile. "You just couldn't help but get in another swat, could you?"

Pompone waves her hand dismissively. "You're a pesky bug! Maybe this one'll get rid of you for good." She says, a mischief-filled grin spreading across her face slowly, like spilled milk. "No peskier than you. Always bugging and fussing and meddling." I shoot back. Pompone laughs, a strange and care-free sound that catches me off guard, to say the least, and pushes my inside my gilded glass cage.

She's still laughing when I touch the surface, blinking like a naked mole rat, fat tongue tasting the air, not that I know that.

 _Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male_

My fear envelops me like a hugely uncomfortable blanket. Despite my plans, despite my intellect, despite my odds, I can feel all of my meager, nigh-nonexistant confidence shedding from me and flying away on the wind.

I'm not one to draw things out. But the careers are, and the gamemakers are, and Panem as a whole is, so I can see a long, painful, drawn-out ordeal in my future. And I'm not even the oracle destined to fulfill some prophecy- that title goes to the partners from six. No, I'm just an analyst. Just a talented little wind-up toy, but I no longer have any praises to sing.

Time to be honest with myself. Get down to the nitty-gritty. Give my psyche a good, stern talking to.

I can see death looming, and the shadow it casts is bigger than any shadow I ever have.

I think I know something about the Games no other tribute fully understands. Maybe Chablis, but the delusional quasi-career is barely scraping the surface if the whole truth.

It all comes down to simplicity, even if the process is hardly mundane in itself. The only thing the Careers have over us is a lifetime of careful conditioning allowing them to project a consistent, simplistic image of themselves. _That's_ why they win so often- not because of their incessant bloodthirstiness or their cache of sponsors, or their endless drive and training. It's their straightforward, simplistic selves. The way they've stifled anything that might make them hard to comprehend, their actions difficult to expect.

Nobody wants an enigma as Panem's pet.

I entered the room with the slightest chance, and I enter the tube without it.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Crescent smiles widely at me. It's a crocodile grin, and being from four, I can usually recognize those. It's not the teeth. You can pull off a crocodile smile without canines. It's the lips. When someone is smiling like a croc, the tips of their lips nearly split.

It's not predatory. Just fake. Waiting.

I know what she's waiting for.

If Crescent Wade had smiled this smile at me a week earlier, I wouldn't have noticed it for what it was, not like I do now. Most likely I would be in awe. It's _Crescent Wave,_ after all. Every second I've spent as the District Four Tribute I've been learning. Becoming more proficient with my weapon, of course, intimidation (although that's one I'm still hardly good at,) camouflage and all that. But what I've become the best at is _noticing._ Noticing that the 10 girl and the 8 girl are attached at the hip, and possible weaknesses for eachother. Noticing the subtle clues about the arena, like the excess of mirrors I've seen decorating the Capitol, that keep me anxious and on my toes. And noticing when something is very clearly wrong.

I don't respond to her smile, or return it in kind. I don't have the lips for it anyways.

I just comfort myself with the notion that that it's not kind of smile Elvira would send me, and it's comforting in a fucked-up kind of way.

It's sad, that. That only in the 11th hour do I begin to value my mother over my mentor.

That smile is a specific variety of art, a difficult kind of art to master. Elvira would want nothing to do with it.

And, surprisingly, neither do I.

 _Hesiodia Trince, District 5 Female_

I'm going to blow all of those morons away. There's no time to throw a pity party for myself, after all. I just need to get in there and show them what I've got. My all is infinite. I'm a spitfire- Togo Sharler agrees! If I just keep up the pep talk constantly I'll live.

Ohfucki'mgonnadiei'mgonnadiesohardi'mgonnafailanddiepepperandcleoyouawfulfuckspepppppppeeeercleeeeeosaaaavemeeeeeee-

My internal monologue ends suddenly when my mentor pushes me in the tube. I guess she's just as impatient as I am.

To begin these games and bash some heads! I mean, die painfully, of course.

 _Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female_

I think about the tapestry as I sit inside my tube.

The color red it uses is the most unnerving thing about it, I think. The frayed, bloodstained gold thread? The brutal deceptions of death and murder? Yeah, no biggie. It's the red that throws me off.

It's not blood red or burgundy. Not cherry, magenta, or wine. Not auburn, or any other synonyms for various shades of red blah blah blah.

The more I ponder it, the more convinced I am that the red isn't on the spectrum entirely. I can barely comprehend it, really- the exact shade is just out of my vision, hovering at the corner of my eye. I don't want to think about it ever again. If I think too hard, I might find something that can make it so I'll never think again.

Honestly, I really like my sanity! I'm sure it'll come in handy during the games. So I turn my attention from the tapestry and to the goosebumps on my skin, cold and erect flesh that knows better than I do.

I peer up through a haze of heavy glass. My mentor looks at me sadly. I never learned her name. I regret that now. I regret a lot of things. I spent a lot of time goofing off. And now I'm going to die.

But just because I regret it doesn't mean I wouldn't do it again if I had the chance.

It's just like the shade of red on that tapestry, really, the not-burgundy not-cherry mystery. Focusing on the games too hard, just like focusing on the color too hard, would undoubtedly drive me stark raving bonkers. I'd rather be at a rave than do it myself.

My mentor reaches out a single delicate hand, too delicate for hands who've probably killed. She presses it against the glass, fingers splayed in a starburst of skin. My head aches, and the sound of a pendulum knocking reverberates in it.

I press my hand against hers as well, and it gives me warmth.

Just for a second, though. Then we disconnect, and the tube rises into a deranged new world.

 _59… 58… 57…_

 _Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female_

Mirrors. Our Arena is a hall of mirrors. Silver and reflective and stretching every which way, red leather coating the ground. A regular funhouse. I can't imagine much fun will be had.

The Cornucopia is reflective too. I can see my face inside it, white and pinched. I look like I'm already dead.

Maybe I am.

 _47… 46… 48_

 _Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female_

I can barely see the exits. It looks like there are a thousand of them, spiraling into fractals in the distance, but it's just the mirrors. The bloodbath will be even harder to escape now.

A strong, harshly maternal feeling washes over me. It's not warm, or loving, the way it is with Ronja. It hurts. Ronja was never really in danger, after all, despite her scraps. I was always overreacting, always exaggerating. And now real danger has come to find my allies.

Maybe it's karma. Or maybe it's just an absence of love.

 _Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male_

I am going to kill all you fuckers. I am more lucid than I've ever been. I'm sane. But I'm going to kill all you pathetic asswipes anyways. Just in a sane way, like every murderer.

 _Do you know who I am, pipsqueak?_

Pipe down!

 _Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male_

Why do I have to be next to Venie?

 _Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female_

I'm a songbird. Ready, ready, ready to fly away. Hardly ethereal, not infallible, but unnoticeable.

Ready, ready, ready to escape.

I can here my mother's screams in my head, and I think I understand now why she ran.

And I feel that urge to rebel harsher than ever before.

 _Richard Sherman, District 11 Male_

Alicia's face is Penny's face. Henry's face is Penny's face. Everyone is wearing Penny masks, from those who deserve it, to those who don't.

I can't help but see victims everywhere I look.

Guilt springs eternal.

 _Henry Wade, District 12 Male_

My foot and heart both hurt. I see Alicia just three platforms down, and I reach for her. There are so many places beyond Panem, so many worlds to explore. Please just let us explore them.

I still don't know what an oyster is.

 _Let the 148_ _th_ _Hunger Games… Begin!_

 **A/N: Just realized I never gave Hesiodia a loner's POV, which is fine because she's obnoxious & irrelevant overall. However, I didn't give Finlay or Richard that either, which ****_is_** **an oversight. Sorry guys. :( I gave them both a POV here to make up for it.**

 **Bloodbath predictions? Victor predictions? Give me your best shot! And review ;3~**


	32. Bloodbath

**A/N: WHAT'S UP MY GOOD DUDES WHO'S READY FOR A RIP ROARIN BLOOODBAAAATH! According to the views and review count, pretty much none of you. Shrug. I can't really expect this to get a lot of traction, as this is my first SYOT and I was inactive for like eight months, but I've I'm severely overwhelmed. If anyone IS still reading this, please review! It gives me the motivation to finish.**

 **Also, I realized I never gave Tesla a loner's POV, because I am Doctor Failure and I have a PhD in neglect. Sorry friend! :(**

 **Without further ado, it's time to shed some blood babey! :3c**

 _Richard Sherman, District 11 Male_

The gong sounds, and the tributes explode outwards. I can see the girl from 2 on my left rush to the center, baring her teeth and not even sparing me a glance. I can hear a low, sad moan as the boy from four bends over the shrimp from 12, the one with the hole in his foot, the career's shadow eclipsing the boy and his features thrown into sharp contrast with that of the shivering tribute.

I smell blood on the air. Screams light up the arena. I swear I can feel the adrenaline, nerve endings firing, death rattles and desperate gasps as hearts stop in their tracks.

And me? I'm frozen, my knees knocking together, every clatter bringing me further and further away from reality. I haven't died yet, but it's only a matter of time, a matter of time, a matter of time…

I've nearly crossed the threshold of fucking _something_ in my mind, that's for sure, when I hear the sharp little voice in my ear.

 _You don't want to be a Penny._

I nearly die right then from fright.

Instead of doing that, which might've been more merciful, I run screaming like a headless chicken into the hollow of the Cornucopia.

 _Mason Dowry, District 1 Male_

Yes. _Yes._ The time has come. The hunt, the thrill, the chase is on. I can see my destiny on the horizon. But not only there.

I also see it on a girl

I reach a sword quickly, and grab it with a single fluid motion. The live metal is warm in my clutched hands. I turn, pivot, and run the girl through. It slides into her heavy bound, and she lets off a wet little gurgle of pain. My people, the careers, turn to me for a second, obviously _ecstatic_ that I got the first kill. None of them deserve it more!

I turn back to her twitching, gasping, in-the-throes-of-agony body. Except she's doing none of those things. She looks like she's at peace.

Hot anger fills me for a second, so potent and all consuming that I'm almost blown away by the ferocity of it. How _dare_ she look content! I killed her!

And then I notice that her left hand is flipping me the bird.

I cut off that finger with a wet thump, but it isn't enough. Her sweet, sickening smile remains, pasted on her fatass face. I roar, and fling my sword in the air to impale her again-

When I feel a sharp, deathly pinch in my lower back.

I look down. Three prongs are extending from my stomach, glistening with my princely red blood.

I'm numb.

In the very end, I do the same thing to my killer that the fatass did to me.

Flip her off.

 _Serena Williams, District 4 Female_

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

 _Hesiodia Trince, District 5 Female_

I'm so pretty right now. So many shades of lovely red, and a little purple and blue too. Purple and blue are Pepper and Cleo's favorite colors. I wonder how they're doing. I miss them. I miss the stupid little gremlins so much.

Come back to me. I want you to see my colors…

What's happening? Is it over? Did I win? I wanna go home. I wanna see Pepper and Cleo. I must've won. What else could I have done?

Usually, I sink like a rock. Right now, though, I feel myself floating.

 _Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female_

I take off instantly, light in the air. I spot a small leather bag laying crumpled on the outskirts, as well as a suspicious red lump. I scoop them up without stopping, and continue to flee.

I run smack dab into a mirror. As a fall back, I see twenty Finlays, all clutching bags and Unidentified Lumpy Objects (ULOs) faces squinted and scrambled with pain. A spiderweb-thin crack extends from the mirror.

I hiss with pain and dodge a wayward arrow. This time, I spot a true door, undiluted and real. I see something that isn't fiction, and run to it.

I slip through, and pelt down a dark velvet corridor, occasionally bouncing off mirrors. I can feel my mother resting on my shoulders, her presence only realized by her faint, warm breath in my ear. Her memories overtake mine, just for a minute.

Running through the wheat, all of her fear melting away like the morning dew. She wasn't scared of the predators, the peacekeepers. I am, though. That's the difference. I recognize my place, even if everything inside me insists I reject it. The Capitol is the predator. I am the prey. I'm just now realizing this even more acutely than before, running for my life, everything inside me, every muscle, every thought straining beyond the limits of the most conscious and aware human.

The Capitol is the predator. I am the prey. My mother was something else entirely, and I'm not living up to her legacy anytime soon.

 _Teryn Gardner, District 9 Female_

I scoop up a tarp, a small parcel, and a pitchfork, An apprehensive Heavenly watching my back. I know, I know, I'm an idiot for running into the Cornucopia, blah blah blah. But the Careers this year are _vicious._ They'll want to mop up the riffraff first before getting to stronger tributes like Heavenly and myself.

Case in point: the little guy pinned to the ground by Maximus' sword. I'm sorry for him. He reminds me of Millard, in a way, and does _that_ resemblance ever tug at my heartstrings.

But it was inevitable.

 _Henry Wade, District 12 Male_

Everything hurts. Everything hurts so much.

My stomach is on fire. My organs spill everywhere, like silly putty. I just know what it is because I read it in a book, as I never got to play with silly putty. I never discovered what an oyster is.

I've just learned that dying hurts. A lot.

Maximus hunches over me. He isn't smiling, but I can see the pride in his eyes. He's proud of his kill.

I feel sick, and everything hurts.

Suddenly, Maximus' head snaps sideways. A skinny, crumpled girl- _Alicia_ \- is biting at his ear, screeching like a hyena, scrabbly, uncut nails raking over his skin.

I've never been more enamored in my life. But I want her to run.

Maximus hisses and throws her off him, and she hits the ground with the sound a cantaloupe makes when it smashes against the ground. Me and Alicia know. While we were at the amusement park, we stole several of them, carried them onto the coasters, and dropped them off, hoping we could knock some Capitolites senseless. We could barely hear the sound over the wind, but it stuck with me.

Maximus holds his sword alight for a minute, and I can barely breathe. He plants it in her stomach, and she gasps in pain. He plants it, but he's not growing anything. He's just taking something away.

Maximus doesn't spare us a glance after that, and lurches away to tend to his wounds. I flip over, and the sound is wet.

Alicia's hands land on top of mine, and her warmth is there even when she leaves.

In my last moments, I think I finally understand what an oyster is.

 _Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female_

 _I was just trying to be a good ally. The best. Now I'm bleeding and dying. Sorry Henry._

Henry's hand is comforting and familiar beneath mine. It doesn't feel like Henry's. It feels like Garfield's. The "only friend" part of him is the part I see in Henry, not the "I-basically-raised-him" part. But he's still there.

In my final moments, I try to sing to an approximation of my brother. But my lips won't move.

There's no sky in the arena, but I can feel the sun on my face. And I am full.

 _Gareth Barkely, District 7 Male_

I scoop up a conveniently located backup, sling it over my shoulder, and begin to run when something knocks the breath out of me. Fear explodes in my trachea, stifling my breaths even if my lungs were functioning. My mind goes haywire. _Ivy, Jess, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-_ Then an arm slinks around my shoulder, and I realize that the bulk that sent my senses spinning belonged to Ajax.

The relief I feel at this is indescribable.

"Have you seen Quinn or Preston?" He yells over the turmoil, eyes distant and scared. I shake my head. His expression falls even more than before. He looks like Eeyore at that moment, and right then I have the perverse urge to treat him like I treat Ivy whenever her mood plummets- making dumb jokes and whining so much she forgets to be sad in favor of admonishing me for my stupidity. I open my mouth to do just that, when Ajax screams right in my ear.

 _"QUINN!_ WHAT ARE YOU _DOING!_ GET UP!"

 _Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female_

My head hurts. So badly. The final ring of the gong hit my cranium like a hammer to the head, and I'm feeling it potently now.

I don't know why. I'm okay. I thought I was okay. But here I am, crouching on the ground as screams set the air on fire, my pain reflecting back at me. Hell eats at my brain.

I'm not even surprised when I feel the spikes lodge themselves in my flesh. It hurts, but it overwhelms the pain in my head. I'm grateful for it. I still feel like I've been run over by an eighteen-wheeler, but I'm grateful.

Hot blood covers me. Not all of it is my own. Preston is sprawled next to me. The monster from nine is obliterating his flesh. He must've been trying to save me. That's nice.

My mind reaches the tapestry as I die. My blood is that same shade. I don't look at it closely. I want to expire sane. I want to expire with Preston. Actually, I don't want to expire at all, but this will do.

The nine boy finally leaves Preston alone, something snapping into position in his oafish brain. He reels back, eyes dark with sudden surprise. He walks, uncertain and precipitous from the corpse, and then runs.

I lean over Preston, head still banging like a big bass drum. He's nigh-unrecognizable, flesh shattered and peeled away to reveal red, red veins, and delicate intestines. He's alive. He's still alive. That's just the perfect, bloody cherry on top.

I think I'm crying now. He doesn't deserve this. I don't deserve this. I don't want to die. And with the pain he's in, with the shapes his mouth is making, I know he does.

His neck is still partially intact. I wrap my hands around it, my tears rainfall. Then I begin to squeeze.

I feel the tendons pulsing, the adam's apple bobbing frantically. I feel his air leaving him. I feel, I feel, I feel, I do nothing but feel.

It takes two minutes, but nobody bothers me. Not even Preston. Not even Ajax and Gareth, who's eyes I can feel searing me. Not even myself. I don't bother myself with questions or answers or pain.

I just choke.

I choke, I choke, I choke, I feel, I feel, I feel, and then I die.

 _Preston Oxford, District 6 Male_

Her hands are a gift. I never paid any attention to her hands before. They were just there- big heavy things that I never treated with any special respect. I was more enamored with her hair, and her face. But I'm appreciating them now. She has angel's hands. With every squeeze, I feel more of my pain leaking away. And I am delivered into similar hands.

Ivy. I miss you, Ivy.

 _Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male_

There is no time. No time for philosophy or planning. No time to be anxious. No time to toot my own horn, or pre-mourn my own death. Those things can be belated. Right now, I just need to live.

I don't bother going for a prize. I just flee, legs pumping, lungs burning. I wouldn't call myself an anti-sports intellectual, but I'm definitely unaccustomed to running so fast.

My legs wheel on. My tendons flare, although I can't see them. I spot glass and pause for a second, trying to divine the location of the exit, my confused mug copying on and one and one until all of my perplexed features blur and blend together like a Tesla martini.

It's enough. This split second lacking movement is, unmercifully, enough. I reach for luck, a steady standing, a willingless to be overlooked, and I fall desperately short. It's enough. Enough to be noticed. Enough to lose the chance to take flight. _It's_ enough, but _I,_ complicated, quiet, unsympathetic Tesla- I am not. And now I will never get the chance to be enough, because someone else already was.

The Capitol doesn't like to wait for anything to be enough. They have enough already. Enough resources, enough time, enough innocent children and enough children too desperate to be called children. They have enough, so why would they want to add to their stock with someone who wasn't born enough or with enough?

Enough.

Something thuds into the back of my head. I hit the plush. I smell my own blood.

It doesn't matter. In the end, when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, my identity doesn't matter. I just get one chance, now. One chance to defy being a statistic. One chance to sear myself, brand myself into someone's head.

"My name is-" I say, and then the blood hits the roof of my mouth and I can't say anything at all.

I will never say enough.

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female_

I wait.

I wait, hungry in the dark. I wait in the heart of the Cornucopia itself, nestled in the back corner, a poison from the inside. A tumor, the kind you don't see until it's too late.

One hand is resting on my stomach, counting every visible rib. Measuring my allure and appeal in doses. Taking everything beautiful about me and packaging it, thrusting it into boxes.

I am already beautiful. These boxes, these tight constraint, these rigorous rules, and the kill I'm about to make will make me _attractive._

In my other hand I hold a knife.

A tribute enters the darkness. I shade my eyes, hoping they don't stand out in the dark. I'm catty enough for it, anyways. It's a guy, but not a career. Skinny and short, but not the impling from 12, who's probably already dead. Curly, fluffy hair. That leaves two possibilities- Preston or Richard. His shoulders don't sag like a discarded marionette, so Richard is the only option.

He's a nice kid. But he is overwhelmingly beneath me. Beneath my foot, beneath my gaze, beneath my knife, hopefully, beneath my beauty.

I blend in with the dark, but I can still light up. The hand I hold in my ribs drifts away slowly, parting from the flesh with a kiss from sharp, fake nails. It lands on the flashlight, intended, I'm sure, for navigating the darker corridors. I pick it up, point it at Richard like a weapon I can wage war with, and snap it on.

I'm sure the beam of white, focused light shooting out from the dank, shady center of the Cornucopia is an alarming sight. As expected, it nearly blinds him. He staggers forwards in pain and confusion.

There is no fighting. There is only two bodies in the dark, and one of those bodies is holding a knife.

Just the luck of cards.

I drive the knife forwards. It pierces his ribs, and blood frothes forwards. I feel him squirm on the blade for a second. Then he lets out a single gasp of pain and crumples.

I walk out of the Cornucopia humbly. I really am camouflage.

Nobody challenges me at all.

The Bloodbath is over.

 **24** **th** **: Hesiodia Trince, District 5 Female- Stabbed by Mason (not axed whoops) [D1]**

 **Hesi… what can I say? You were destined to be a Bloodbath. It even said so in your form. But oddly enough, I found myself connecting to you, for some weird reason. I were so arrogant and smug it was comedic, but, I don't know… behind your "Material Girl" personality, I saw a normal girl, and I stressed that when you died. You may have been the most unpleasant tribute in the Games, but you didn't deserve to die. You're a ghost now. Thanks ? (guest) for Hesi. In the end, she was undeserving of her fate.**

 **23** **rd** **: Mason Dowry, District 1 Male- Stabbed by Serena [D4]**

 **Wait, I take it back. Hesiodia was** ** _not_** **the most irritating tribute in the Games. You were. You were… well, you were nasty, violent, deplorable, angry, sexually frustrated, arrogant, grossly overconfident, and totally not cake. You were the perfect Career, too, and fit very well with the brutal Careers of canon. Maximus and Taurus do too, but you were the one that fit the bill best. You were** ** _so_** **terrible that your fellow Career killed you in plain sight. Ouch. Don't torment Hesi in the afterlife. Please. I'm begging you. Thanks ? (guest) for Mason. You, sir, are a true god for creating a terrible character- and a bloodbath, at that. I salute you.**

 **22** **nd** **: Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female- Stabbed by Maximus [D4]**

 **Well. The first two deaths were easy to write for me. Not yours. I'm pretty sure I'm heading straight to hell for killing you. Alicia, you were a sweetheart, and would have grown into a lovely young woman if it hadn't been for the Hunger Games. You escaped death so many times in your youth, despite your selflessness. This time, you didn't get lucky. I wasn't going to kill you in the Bloodbath at first. Then I wrote Henry's death and thought "Wait… Alicia wouldn't just sit around while her ally died, would she? Crap." You died rushing to Henry's aid, and because of you, Maximus has some bad claw marks on his face. I'm proud of you. Fly free in the afterlife. And don't worry about Garfield. He'll be fine. Thanks CallmeLegend for Alicia. She was a joy to write.**

 **21** **st** **: Henry Wade, District 12 Male- Stabbed by Maximus [D4]**

 **Henry! No! My sweet muffin, you didn't deserve your fate either. You belong in a world without the Hunger Games- but sadly, that's not a world I'm really interested in writing. There are so many things you never got to do, and believe me when I say I want to grab your hand and take you on a million adventures. And feed you more cake. Alicia can come too. And Garfield. And Richard. Anyways, like Alicia, you were the sweetest 'lil cream puff. You were simply bubbling over with dreams and killing you was /probably/ the hardest thing I've ever done. Thanks Adythia123 for Henry. He should have been reading.**

 **20** **th** **: Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female- Cleaved by Rodrick (ew) [D9]**

 **QUINN! When I got your form, I had no idea how I would write you. But when I put my fingers to the keyboard, the words just… flowed out. I was amazed. It felt like I could write you in my sleep! You switched from quiet to loud in a heartbeat. I was** ** _so confused_** **by you, and how easy I found writing you to be. You were a person who couldn't be boxed into one category, you were quiet and loud and shy and gregarious and funny and scared and reckless and broken and whole. A person of intense differences. You came to life in my hands. You lives and laughed and breathed and died, and nobody's forgetting you anytime soon. Thanks SageThePistachioQueen for Quinn. She was a great character, but alas, her death was preplanned. Speaking of which, I can finally let the cat out of the bag now- Quinn had a very serious concussion thanks to her head injury in her Reapings chapter. There was a lot of foreshadowing about it, but none of you guessed! I'm proud of myself for keeping that secret so well. Sure backfired on Quinn though.**

 **19** **th** **: Preston Oxford, District 6 Male- Cleaved by Rodrick (ew,) [D9] Strangled by Quinn. [D6]**

 **Oh Preston, my sad little bean. Like with Quinn, you were so fun to play with, and I apologize for dragging you through actual literal hell. Quinn definitely overshadowed you, and some of that was my fault- Just because she's more vivacious than you doesn't mean she should overwhelm you. Sorry. But some of it was just you. You were a character of subtleties, who slipped into the background easily. You, unlike Quinn, were easily shoved into a tragic lovers position, and you played your part well. I wonder what I'll be reincarnated into in order to pay for my sins. Maybe I'll just burn in hell. Anyways, you were a nice, easy character to write, and I liked your tragic-ness a lot. Thanks ChalkItUp for Preston.**

 **18** **th** **: Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male- Shot by Venie [D2]**

 **You were the first surprise death, the second being Richard. Mason and Hesi were total dumbasses. Alicia and Henry were twelve. Preston and Quinn were heavily foreshadowed. But nobody expected you to die, and for good reason. You were smart, resourceful, and a seemingly great candidate for Victor. But you didn't really have a place here. I have a whole storyline planned, and you don't fit in anywhere. I considered letting you live, because I liked you, but it wouldn't be fair to you, or your submitter. You would get barely any screentime, and eventually everyone would realize you weren't my Victor. For what it's worth, you were a great tribute. You weren't easy to write, that's for sure, but your quiet brilliance and shy nature tickled me pink and I enjoyed your character. Thanks go-for-santa for Tesla. He was a great character. I just wasn't great at including him.**

 **17** **th** **: Richard Sherman, District 11 Male- Knifed by Chablis [D1]**

 **Richard was my second surprise death. I never really got Richard. I couldn't understand his personality at all. I tried to work with him, but it never really went very well. Writing him was really hard, for reasons even I can't explain. I just didn't connect with him. I think you might have noticed, seeing as I forgot him a LOT. Nevertheless, he was a strong character, and would have a great shot if not for circumstances out of his control. And, ya know, Chablis. Thanks goatman25 for Richard. He was a cool dude, we just didn't click.**

 **Alliances after BB:**

 **Careers: Venie [D2] Taurus [D2] Serena [D4] Maximus [D4]**

 **Sad, near-dead clovers: Gareth [D7] Ajax [D8]**

 **Sugar, Spice…: Futura [D3] Cajsa [D8]**

 **Tough Girls: Heavenly [D7] Teryn [D9]**

 **Loners:**

 **Chablis [D1] Nyso [D5] Rodrick [D9] Blair [D10] Crystaille [D10] Finlay [D11]**

 **KILL COUNTS:**

 **Mason Dowry: 1**

 **Serena Melenese: 1**

 **Maximus Vulcan: 2**

 **Rodrick Olivier: 1 and ½**

 **Quinn Jennings: ½**

 **Venie Hadley: 1**

 **Chablis Brochetto: 1**

 **CURRENT KILL LEADER: Maximus Vulcan**

 **A/N: Omg this chapter is so looooooooong. I wrote the obituaries like a year ago, yeah, but that still leaves me typing like 3000 words and my fingers are uber-dead!**

 **Now, onto the elephant in the room…**

 **I am, truly, sincerely sorry if I killed your tribute. Rest assured I hated none of them, except Mason but he was meant to be hated so whatever. Their deaths were required to further the plot, and keeping them around longer would not contribute to the story, so this was necessary. I know the majority of submitters who's tributes I killed are no longer around, but for the ones who are, I** ** _implore_** **you to continue reading. I've invested so much in this story, and just because your tributes aren't active doesn't mean you shouldn't be. And, of course, review! Thoughts on the bloodbath? Top 6 and Victor predictions? Any bloodbaths you predicted, any that blew you away with surprise? Just an entire review filled with criticism? You know what, that's lit too. Drop a feedback bomb on me boyos. I seriously hope you all are enjoying this story! I'll see you guys next time for Day One!**


	33. Day The First: The Ship Of Theseus

**A/N: Hey all! Sorry it's been like a month, but the bloodbath REALLY took the piss out of me, enormous, multifaceted monstrosity of a chapter it is. And, of course, the school year started, which occupied quite a bit of my time. But rest assured this story WILL continue trucking on and hopefully at a bit of a quicker rate, too! Now, no more ramble and preamble, it's time for DAY 1!**

 _Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female_

The air is, in itself, tension. Tension is what coils and uncoils in my gut, the smell of the carpeting beneath my feet. Futura feels it too- I can tell by how short her breaths air.

I used to teach Ronja breathing exercises before it got to be too much, or close to too much. She would begin to pant, swear pouring down her waxy skin, and I could nearly taste the acid on her tongue. Her tiny chest would swell and contract, concave and convex, wax and wane as her heart-rate sped up. A dying rabbit of a girl. I would rub her back and tell her to breathe in through her mouth, fill herself with air until she feels ready to pop like a balloon. Then, exhale, deflate, collapse in upon yourself.

It forced her body to calm down, and her mind could slow with this advice as well. I'm not exactly going to whisper meaningless platitudes and greeting-card reassurances to Futura or give her a back massage, but I can lend her the advice.

"Breathe in, slowly. Through your mouth." I say, as calmly as I can manage. She blinks up at me in confusion, then wordlessly shrugs her shoulder. Slowly, she begins to breathe, her lips parting and closing, chest rising and falling. After a tense minute, she finally stops. A faint smile blemishes her stone-cold visage for a millisecond, and then it passes like a summer storm. "Thanks."

…

My train of thought is off the rails.

"You can cry. You know, if you want to…" My voice trails off at Futura's incredulous glance, my regret carved in her furrowed brow. "I…" She cuts me off coldly, words flint-sharp but carrying all the wrong connotations. "Sure. Why not. Let the waterworks go un-maintained." Her eyes, though, are lizard-like in their dryness.

But I appreciate the sentiment.

After a fueled minute and a half of stone-eyed awkwardness, Futura climbs to her feet, one sweaty hand pressed flat against the smooth, reflective surface of the mirror, the other hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into her forehead.

"Well, now that we've successfully cried our eyes out, come to terms with our emotions and overcome our repression, let's go find Crystaille."

 _Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female_

Inexplicable pain dilutes and refines inside of me. After all, my only pain should be from my slightly twisted ankle stained delicate shades of gray and violet I'd only seen before in hallucinations, but my gut and head are both killing me, thankfully not literally.

Teryn grabbed a knapsack, a pitchfork, and a tarp while I watched her back, and on the way out (and into this all too familiar labyrinth of reflections and pinched pale faces don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it don't even think in the slightest) I managed to snag a heavy backpack. It weighed me down slightly while running, but the supplies inside and the protection it would offer my previously dangerously exposed back spurred me into taking the risk. The cost outweighs the risk. The end justifies the means. It's just economics.

I'm not thinking about backpacks anymore.

 _How many key components can you remove and replace from Theseus's ship before it stops being his ship and becomes a different ship entirely?_

 _Does it ever?_

I shake my head. Now's not the time for inapplicable thought experiences. I can grapple with my mortality later. (if there is a later do i want a later) Right now, I need to pay attention.

Teryn's got our two fundamental goodie bags unzipped, the tarp and pitchfork discarded in the corner for now. "Already… hello Panem and welcome to my unboxing video!" She says sardonically, and in my mind I imagine invisible cams swiveling towards her, bright and alert. She begins to reveal the contents of her tiny knapsack. "All right, we've got a pocketknife, a canteen of water- score!- a tin of sardines; could be worse, some bandages and two apples." As she says two apples, she tosses one to me. "Should we waste our food like that?" I venture. She shrugs. "It's fresh produce. Should spoil after a while anyways, so why not?" I hesitate, and then shrug my shoulders listlessly, feeling my will unravel. I bit into an apple.

We finish our apples with such similar timing that it seems nigh synchronized. The cores end up in the now-desolated knapsack, and we move onto the backpack. "Hey, do you want to open it?" Teryn says offhandedly. I'm about to accept her offer at face value, when I see the pious look in her eyes, and I remember something she told me during a late-night strategy rendezvous.

" _When I pity someone, or sense that when someone is scared, I loosen up. Can't fuckin help it- It's like all of the strings holding me up, keeping me tense and collected, snap at the same time."_

Well, I guess that settles it. I'm darkly, horrifyingly _pitiable._ I don't mind much- but this confirms something for me.

If I rake my fingernails down my face, acting like the screeching rape victim and pre-emptive morphling junkie everyone thinks me to be, she WILL try and stop me.

In any situation that isn't this one, I don't know whether or not that's a particularly reassuring thought.

"Nope." I say. "G-go ahead." Teryn gives me a strange look, less brimming with unspoken pity than her previous, but strange all the same. Without further preamble she begins to take out the items, one by one, and I in turn begin to catalogue them in my head. "Two more water canteens, a sleeping bag- just one, that's unfortunate, some cheese and crackers, a jar of… peanut butter? What the fuck? Well, whatever. Ooh, a machete! A pad of paper and a ballpoint pen, and… a magic 8 ball? How is this piece of shit going to help us out?"

"Hand it over," I say. She tosses it, a neat underhand to contrast with her fumbled overhand from the apple socking, and I catch it. "Will you be useful to us?" I address my question to the ball, and Teryn snorts.

I shake.

 _No matter what you do, by the time you remove the first component, it's a different boat. And replacing it won't make it the same boat again._

"It says… better not tell you now."

"What a crock of shit!"

 _Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male_

Alone, alone, alone. Not alone enough? Have some loneliness sprinkled on top!

The mirror-clad halls twist and wind, serpentine in their complexity. My token, _The Ice-Queen In The Mouse_ is frigid in my sweaty hands, much like the content of the reading material itself. It's also the only thing I took out of the bloodbath, too consumed by fear to bother running for the Cornucopia, too much like the titular mouse to want for anything but my immediate survival.

And maybe some nonlethal company. Some nonlethal company would be great right now.

It's times like these I wish I hadn't buried myself into books so deeply. It gave me a temporary escape, but look at me now. I'm in the Hunger Games.

Although that probably isn't because of my unquenchable thirst for literature, now that I think about it.

Still, maybe my people skills wouldn't be such a fixer-upper now. Maybe I'd have some allies to watch my back, like Crystaille or the littlies or literally everyone/anyone else that isn't a sadist. Maybe, maybe maybe. Not only do I have to deal with endless paths of smoke and funhouse mirrors, now I've got a rabbit hole of infinite hypotheticals to follow.

MAYBE my mom wouldn't be dead. MAYBE the boy from twelve wouldn't have been shot in the foot like wandering cattle. MAYBE I wouldn't be such a hopeless recluse. MAYBE I would have a harem and economic stability. If… if what? Logically I know it's not my fault, all of these were out of my sphere of control. But there's a butterfly effect in play, and I'm not a time traveler.

It's impossible to know. For want of a nail, for naught of a nail. It's impossible to know.

I bang into another goddamn mirror, and that's when I hear them.

"Where's all the fucking prey at?" A voice, loud and arrogant. My blood turns to liquid nitrogen. I cannot BELIEVE I've managed to keep my bladder under control at this point. "I don't know. Why, it's almost like the outliers don't _want_ to be murdered." Another voice. Low, dry, and sarcastic, but indisputably feminine. I bite down hard on my tongue and imagine the horrible sensation that dying must be like, all of my neurons firing off at once in a fireworks display of cranial activity and then nothing, more nothing, and even more nothing. Forever.

That's when I begin to run.

Right into the Careers.

The girl from four immediately spins me around, with the delicate motions of a dancer but the physique of a barbarian and the intent of an assassin. She pins me against the back-scraping velvet partitioning two mirrors. I squirm and bite, but her hands are heavy and strong and maliciously focused. "Alright. Time to get this over with."

"I claim kill." Her district partner says immediately, a shit-eating grin on his face. I imagine those pearly whites sinking themselves into my jugular. She glowers at him. "You'd just make it messy." "Than I'll have 'im." Says the gruff brute from two. "So would you!" She scolds. All my hopes are draining away, and my body deflates with it. They squabble for half a minute more and then-

I feel a sharp prick in my throat. Then I feel a truck run me over.

Not literally, but that's frightening close to the sensation. Horrible, incredible, indescribable pain _(oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god)_ , then shock, _(did I really get hit by a truck)_ then a terrifying, zen numbness _(whatcha gonna do when you get hit by a truck. it's like that, guys. it's like that, guys. it's like that guys. you see it, right guys? it's like that, guys.)_

Faintly, I hear a yell of outrage. A shadowed shape pushes apart the now fuming hulks from 2 and 4 and absentmindedly brushes the fem-Goliath away from my body. This causes me to droop and fall to the ground like a wilting flower, painfully slow and ruinous. The hazy figure, now identifiable as the greasy, emancipated, hyperfocused girl from 2, _(like the ice queen looks just like the ice queen)_ leans down and pulls out the knife lodged in my now-desolated neck, nonchalantly wiping it off on her jacket. Putrid oxygen hits the roof of my throat, and the blood begins to pour as my body hits the floor. "You're acting like little kids, calling dibs and waiting for your turn. If you want the goddamn kill, come and get it."

 _Ready or not, here I come!_

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female_

"Come one, come all, Capitolites and District dwellers alike. Have you ever heard of Theseus and the Minotaur?"

"No? Well, I don't want to bother you with the details. I'm sure you have more important scenes to drink in. Career drama, maybe? Or perhaps the fallout from the death of whoever set that cannon off. I can't be the only one telling a story."

"But I'm the only one concentrating on the juicy bits. And I know you like your juicy bits."

"Rewind, back to Ancient Greece and the prosperous city of Crete, ruled by King Minos and Queen Pasiphae. Apparently, one of the two did something to incur the wrath of fate, or maybe love, because Pasiphae was cursed to fall for a bull. She got her bestiality on and ended up bearing a grotesque child- the Minotaur, half-bull, half-man, and all depravity. King Minos nearly died from embarrassment, but at the last second changed his mind- someone else could die for it instead. Minos hid the Minotaur in a Labyrinth constructed by his imprisoned personal inventor Daedalus, a construction so complicated that no one who went in there would come out alive. Minos began to use the Minotaur as garbage disposal for his enemies- throwing political dissenters in an inescapable labyrinth with only a big-ass Minotaur for company is a pretty efficient way of taking out the trash."

"One day, a young prince called Theseus- no one important- decided he was going to be a sacrifice for the Minotaur in hopes of killing it. Seeing as King Minos didn't usually get a lot of people VOLUNTEERING for the position, he let Theseus in, unknowing of his ulterior motivations. Or maybe he just didn't give a shit."

"Before he went in, Theseus met Princess Ariadne, King Minos's daughter. They fell madly in love in record time, and she gave him a ball of thread. If he ventured into the Labyrinth with it, he could mark sections he'd already been in with a sliver of thread and find a path straight to the Minotaur. Without it, he'd be dead in record time."

"You understand what I'm trying to say, right? Without the thread, he'd be dead in record time."

"Without the thread-"

"Ah! There it is, the ever-pleasing ding of the sponsor gift. And I have a feeling I know what it is. Anyways, thank you, my loyal audience. I won't be able to do this without you."

 _End of Day 1._

 **Eulogies:**

 **17** **th** **: Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male- Knifed by Venie Hadley [D2]**

 **Blaaaaair! You were dope, dude. Your crippling social anxiety/fear of confrontation and the ways in which you were self-aware about it really struck a chord within me, and I may have implanted a little bit of my naturally sardonic spirit in you- sorry for that. Your submitter, Indium2000, is no longer reading, but if they were I apologize if Blair came off as a bit OOC! If it's any consolation, he was truly a gem to write and I'm sorry I killed him so early. I truly am a cruel and relentless master. Your love for books also rung a bell- being a bookworm is one of the few things I feel comfortable bragging about because I know for sure that it's true. Books are the one true escape, am I right. We did have very different tastes though. Also, you're dead and I'm not, so that's another pretty major difference. But we're not here to talk about me, we're here to talk about YOU! Your contradictory shyness and sarcasm was a blast to explore and all the literary motifs were just a delight! You may have groused a bit in the privacy of your own mind, but you were still very nice and compassionate, and certainly didn't deserve to bleed out while people argue over who has the right to kill you. Don't worry, Venie will get her just desserts… or will she? Who knows? Certainly not me. You'll finally muster up the courage to talk to Alicia and Henry in heaven! I'm the author, so if I say it, it's canon. Another totally cool fact- in this world, it's totally canon that everyone's molecules are made up of live fire ants and cheez wiz. Cause I says it is. ;)**

 **A/N: Just noticed it now, but this chapter involves quite the overabundance of Theseus. I assure you, that was not intentional. If you didn't know, Theseus's boat is a thought experiment. How many pieces of an object (the default being Theseus's boat) can you replace before it becomes a different boat? And is it even a different boat at all? It's a thought experiment, meaning there isn't a conclusive answer. It's just something to ponder, along the lines of the Trolley Problem and Schrodinger's Cat. My personal stance on it is that no matter how many components you replace, it's still the same boat. As you can see, Heavenly's is quite different, likely due to our very different experiences. I've been kind of obsessed with thought experiments lately, and really wanted to include one in SOMETHING. Schrodinger's cat is a good literary tool because it's so versatile and can be applied to so many different situations, but it's kind of overdone so I went with good old Theseus instead. I didn't pick the Wolves and Sheep puzzle because that's actually a very racist metaphor for systemic genocide (yikes) and I'm not even going to touch the "needs of the many" issue that arises with the Trolley Problem and the Surgery problem, no matter how applicable it may be to Heavenly's situation cuz I hardly know what my OWN stance is, lmao. One more thing- This wasn't ALL that happened on day one. I'm not showing it because I'm lazy, but some other relevant shit happened too, and I'll allude to it on Day 2. But rest assured there were no other deaths. I'm not mean enough to leave you in THAT much suspense.**

 **See you at Day 2!**


	34. Day The Second: Guts And Glory

**A/N: WHAT'S UP GUYS IT'S TIME FOR DAY TWOOOO! Are you excited? Oh why am I even asking, of course you are! How could you not be? /side eye myself _ /. Anywhatsit, today we're going to be revisiting the careers and two punk-ass rebellious rogues. Who are these punk-ass rebellious rogues? Hint hint: one of them is from three, and the other one is from fiveoh shit their district partners are dead nvm aura of mystery canceled :(.**

 **TW for squick in the last POV.**

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

I'm going to kill her.

The sky is blue, the grass is green, the world spins and spins on its unmovable axis, and I am going to kill Serena Melenese.

And when I do, I'll tell them- _She had it coming._

"We need to ration our food appropriately. Hoarders, I see you." She says calmly, finishing off an apple with neat little bites. Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite, I think in the secluded privacy of my head, employing the same tactics I used against my asshole of a stylist- clamming up, but maiming her in my head. When I kill her, I think I'll club her to death with fucking apples. If she hasn't eaten all of them by then.

In a boarded off part of my mind, a dry and sour voice remarks that I sure am going out of my way to find things to hate about her. That honestly, I should just admit my humiliation at the one time she somehow bested me, and circle my hatred and urge for a rivalry around that. That I should stop floundering for an excuse, any excuse, and just man up already, tell myself the truth. That since I realized I'd be going into the games, I've longed for a victory, any victory against my district partner.

 _Because winning doesn't always mean pushing your way to the top._

In a stunning bout of understanding, I win this mental argument by pushing the little voice away, where it will remain stewing in its own juices. FOREVER.

The career pack is unstable. Anyone with eyes can see that. Venie's on Taurus' bad side (Okay, his worst side. As if he has a good side.) ever since she went and stole a kill he claimed was rightfully his- and she doesn't exactly like him, either. Killing Mason during the bloodbath didn't exactly turn us on Serena- none of us really gave a halfhearted shit about the guy- but we're all kind of apprehensive around her now, shifting where we're sitting like children waiting about being told off by their teacher. Except for me. I never fidget. Ever, and absolutely not.

Serena stretches and neatly tucks her apple core into the backpack. I feel a surge of mild sadistic euphoria when I think about apple juices soaking all of her stuff. It fades, however, when she rethinks that move, pulls the core out of her backpack, and sticks it in mine, grinning smugly.

Sometimes being controlling my unfathomable rage can be… difficult.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

My former naïvete was something to look back on and laugh on now. I could already feel myself growing harder and colder. Purely metaphorically, of course, but I could help but imagine my muscular frame morphing into hard, chitinous armor, carapace plates sprouting between my well-oiled joints, imprisoning me in a crustacean's cage. Well. I guess that's proof I haven't changed _that_ much. I still have an artist's brain. I still don't relish the thought of killing. But I'm certain my level of obnoxiousness has risen, as well as how often I turn around when Maximus is walking behind me. That's risen too.

Ever since my altercation with Crescent, I've been on the lookout for shark's grins. Venie doesn't show them off often, but when she does, they aren't in my direction. And I'm glad- she's a scary chick. Taurus does them regularly, but he can't pull them off. It's all in the dimples- the dimples he absolutely doesn't have. His glowers are enough anyways. For anyone unexposed to them, that is- the rest of us are desensitized by now.

Maximus pulls this shit the most often. I wish he had less of a grip over my internal monologue.

"C'mon, let's go hunt!" Maximus says, interrupting my thoughts from progressing any further. "We've only killed one guy. The rest of the tributes aren't going to weed themselves out." "You don't know that," I say, partially to agitate him, but partially because it's true. Outer district tributes are capable of making kills to survive. There's no glory in them, but there doesn't have to be. Tooth and nail goes a long way when wrestling with a 12-year-old. There are bound to be mutts as well. Blood _will_ splatter across the ground, and we won't necessarily be the ones shedding it. We don't need to be.

Maximus knows this as well as I do, which is why my train of thought is futile. He just wants to kill.

I don't, not really. But being alone with Maximus, even for a murder party, will yield some interesting results. I'm morbidly curious, even. How does he think he can get away with killing me?

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

How is she going to approach this? I know that there's a way I can corner Serena and kill her during the hunt. She knows that too, and knows that there's also a way she could kill me. There's a whole other, nonverbal conversation underneath this banal murder chat, and we're playing xanatos speed chess with it. With every dark glower and toothy grin there's another question being asked.

 _How do I get her to agree?_

 _Will she decide the gain outweighs the risk?_

 _How do we get Venie and Taurus out of the way?_

 _Am I sure I'll come out on top?_

That's one question I don't need answered.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

 _Should I even agree to this?_

 _Who's to say Taurus and Venie won't agree anyways, rendering it all null and void?_

 _What weapons will he bring? Will it be a big issue?_

 _Am I sure I'll come out on top?_

That inquiry's already resolved.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

Venie speaks up, piercing our passionate mumbling and mental deliberations. "I'm not going." She says calmly. Well. That's one problem vanquished. Half a problem? She pushes her greasy hair away from her pallid face. "I've got to clean my knives. The care and keeping of blades is very important, you know."

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

She leers, a crocodile smile pasted on her face.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

As she says this, she glances over at Taurus for a split second. He's half asleep and mumbling under his breath. Probably wanking it to murdering Venie or the guy from 10 in his malformed dreams. Venie smiles, faux-tenderly, at his limp form and runs the smooth, flat side of the blade underneath her thumb. "He's not coming either." She croons. For a split second I wonder if leaving Venie with him is the best idea. Then I remember that I actually don't care about Taurus' wellbeing and Venie's a much more valuable member of this clown troupe. I shrug. "Suit yourself."

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Maximus and I prepare head out. I take my time deliberating over what to bring- trident or rapier? I'm skilled with both and I want to make sure I bring the most efficient weapon, sure, but I'm also clinging to life, stalling. I don't want to die. I have a lot to do.

So I'm going to have to suck it up, kill this poser, and always remember my mother (I miss you, Elvira, sorry I didn't call you mom) and the paint everywhere, to call it red red paint.

I grab the rapier and rise to my feet. The joints in my ankles crackle like brush fibers.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

My hands are slick, and I'm not sure why. My fingers scrabble over the hilt of my rapier. She chooses the same weapon. I remember our duel on the train and hot, poisonous rage fills me up, my stomach muscles clenching and unclenching in the remembrance of humiliation. She won't win again. My temper is under control. My tongue is under control. I _am_ control.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Venie sticks her tongue out at us as we leave. "Goooood luck!" She giggles, acting as if I'm out to get laid rather than kill a guy.

I don't wish her good luck back, but she takes it as if I have.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

We keep up the pretenses for a few minutes. Tension falls upon us like a second skin- and by us I mean Serena. Because I'm not tense or apprehensive at all. Nope. Only purpose here.

Her footsteps are soft and her feet barely touch the ground as we walk, and I know it's because she's ready to run or jump at a moment's notice. I skim the mirrors with the pads of my fingers. My reflection watches me critically. I think I see it wink.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

I hope he can't hear how hard I'm breathing. That's something I can't make into an art form.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

My instincts are screaming at me to get out. I don't trust them. I don't think that's my instincts.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Maximus tries to get behind me. I don't let him.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

That's not me. Not the one who headed out with Serena five minutes ago, that is.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

I whip around, rapier held aloft, barely quivering, shining from the faint light the mirrors emit. Two Maximus' stand in front of me. I freeze, confused, and see the mirror to the right of the Maximus on the left rippling like a disturbed pond.

Reflected in that mirror, I see a familiar body emerge from a glass cocoon.

Arms lock themselves around my neck.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

The other me swings his rapier in my direction. I dodge the arcing blade and scramble for mine, meeting his with a clash of steel, light reverberating like sound waves from our blades. Instinct takes over, and I let it, because I can tell the difference between my body's commands and the whispers from an askew mirror.

Parry, parry, thrust, thrust. Defense, offence, defense, offence, defense, offence. We dance. But we're equally matched. After all, we're the same people. There's only really one option.

I lock eyes with Serena, who's escaped her chokehold and is now trading identical blows with her clone. I don't say anything, but I think she understands.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

I'll save your life if you save mine.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

We back away from our respective partners and combat. Other-me smiles in a weirdly sharkish way, thinking I'm retreating. Thinking he's won. Thinking like me, because he _is_ me.

That's when Serena and I swap.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

I rush forwards like a rampaging bull, ducking underneath other-me's arm and sliding my rapier forwards. It slides through other-Maximus wetly. He lets out a choking gasp, like his mouth's filling slowly with cold, cold water, and disappears, leaving my blade encrusted with silver goop.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

I charge other-Serena and my sword enters her throat easy as pie. Spit flows and flowers from her mouth, gray and gunky and metallic, like her reflective embryo. She fades away, nothing left of her but her blood on my hands.

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

With the immediate danger out of the way, me and Maximus trade awkward glances. The tension has dissipated, replaced with just… awkwardness and confusion. We shuffle our feet.

I speak up first.

"Sooo… are we still going to kill each other?"

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

I frown. She's still really obnoxious. And I still want to prove my objective superiority over her in every field. But… she saved my life. That's not just nothing. That's not irrelevant. I deliberate for a few high-concept seconds.

"Final two. I'll kill you then."

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Maximus sticks his hand out, still slick with clone juice. I hesitate. Do I really want this? Wouldn't it be more pragmatic to kill my biggest competition now, so the only person I need to face in the finale is a scrawny, malnourished outlier who survived so long by curling up into a corner and making sure to cry quietly?

Oh, who am I kidding.

I reach for his hand.

 _Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male_

I flick a chunk of other-Serena in her face.

"FUCK YOU!"

 _Serena Melenese, District 4 Female_

Somehow, as I say this, I know our promise is still intact.

 _Futura Light, District 3 Female_

If you look up the dictionary definition of on edge, it'd define it as _this moment._

These halls are practically endless. Corridors upon corridors of mirrors, plush red velvet, and faint luminescence that seem to stretch upon forever and ever without fail. There's an insidious boredom in our movements, a sluggishness only present in those tasked with something that seems impossible. There've been no cannons since the one that came midday yesterday, and that one wasn't Crystaille as shown by the night-time faces, so she's not dead… not yet. Still, though, she could be lying wounded in a hallway, running from the careers, or just on the other side of the arena entirely. We have no way of knowing.

I'm not used to not knowing things, to being in the dark. It's… unpleasant. Highly unpleasant. Like all of my movements, all of my decisions are shrouded in a fog. Like everything I do could potentially lead to death. Well. Not "like it." Everything I do _could._ And that's another scary thing. All of my half formed hypotheticals, like _maybe i'll die right now,_ or _maybe i'll end up in the Hunger Games_ are all becoming horribly plausible. There is no longer a margin of error.

Thoughts like this fuck me up. Scientific thoughts, as if this isn't delicate and emotional. Like it's just… clinical. An experiment, with every trial introducing a new independent variable. My connections seem meaningless.

They aren't. Even if Cajsa, Futura, and I all die today… they aren't meaningless. Just because they aren't a priority doesn't make them null and void. Life comes first. But empathy can come second rather than dead last, can't it?

Can't it?

I wish I knew what I'm meant to do.

 _Nyso Torrent, District 5 Male_

The arena is dark. Horribly, awfully dark. Not the dark I can crouch and revel in, the dark I can hide from all of my fear and anger and reciprocal hatred in, but a dark where everything is visible, especially me.

There are some benefits to being a rat, to being a time bomb with a hidden fuse. No one sees you. But there's a spotlight, a shadow spotlight upon me, and I'm a rat in a maze. The donkey, with the stick in front of me and the carrot far behind, somewhere I could never reach it.

I vaguely remember it being light before, ethereal glowing light from tinted mirrors. But there's none, not any more, and I crash into invisible wall and invisible wall, a pinball, a rat trap. A lost cause. Blowback.

I hit the wall again, but, this time, instead of reeling backwards on unsteady feet, I fall through and hit earth. I smell water, and trees, and fire. But I'm still in the dark, and my ears are bleeding.

My ears are bleeding.

My ears are bleeding…

Chunky blood, like salsa or tomato sauce pours from all my orifices, clogging my head, jamming my mind. It fills me up, my hatred of my self, salsa and rat tails and bits of brain. Ink soup. I look up. My eyeballs are mush, guts and nuts and bolts in my cranial cavities. I feel myself rot away as I stare at myself, a smiling shark self. He places his hand on my head, and we shrivel into goop, pots and pans and sea and gulls. Pine wind and oaken air brushes my ruin skin, finely scented. I need a comfort object. My digits and peeled nails are my comfort objects. I need an explosion, I need my rage and rogue rebellion it's all I have it's all I have it's all I HAVE-

I'm fire. I'm fire. I'm fire.

I wake, and the only fire is in my sand-dry throat.

 **A/N: That was really anime.**

 **I'm such a tease, aren't I? All this buildup to a Serena/Maximus fight and they didn't even kill each other :(. At least you guys get to see them kill metaphysical representations of each other? Speaking of which, what do you all think about the mirror mutts? Do you think they'll ever actually kill anyone? For that matter, who do you think is going to win the Serena/Maximus showdown? And when will it happen? It sure seems like they'll be the final two. But what if they're not? What if they're not even going to fight at all? What then? What if I just kill one of them in a stupid way the next chapter for shits and giggles? Truly, I am a mystery wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a self-loathing hot pocket. ;). Anyways, nice little no-death chapter, huh? Who do you think's gonna hit the bucket next? Thoughts on Futura and Cajsa (and Nyso)? Will they ever find Crystaille? What the hell is** _ **she**_ **up to? Are Nyso's dreams prophetic, or is he just weird? Who's even the victor, anyways? I'll say this much: at this point, I've decided upon our victor, as well as everyone's placings. Maybe I'll shake it up drastically and kill the victor next chapter or something, but I don't think so. I'm pretty happy with the decision I've made. So, feel free to go nuts with speculation in the comments! And, barring that, at least comment SOMETHING. They fuel me.**

 **See you next time for Day 3!**


	35. Day The Third: With Power

**A/N: So uh. Wow. I mean, hey hey! You guys ready for Day 3? I know I am! (I mean seriously after that wait how could I not be.) Some news: I'm going to try and make the POVs more even from now on. Last chapter was REALLY Maximus and Serena-centric, and while that does make sense due to most of the action and conflict in the chapter circling around them, but Futura and Nyso ended up getting shafted. I'm sorry about that. And also about this bullshit delay! School is being very not Gucci to me right now. But Christmas break's allowing me to zoom through this chapter and hopefully I'll have another up before it ends, as after this getting chapters out monthly is going to be difficult cuz curriculum. I honestly can't believe I'm getting this out before 2019. But no more downer-isms! Let's get on with the show! Today we'll be visiting with a waif from 11, a certain member of a half-dead alliance, one of the Big Bad careers, and Miss Kickass Pitchfork!**

 _Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female_

The urge to run like a dog is a powerful one.

It stays with me, tugging at my calves and thighs and sides. Run, rabbit, run run run. Sometimes I like to think it's my mother's ghost. Other times I remind myself it's just instinct. But most of the time I just render it as a temporary longing, an urge that will fade soon enough.

But this is the third day in the arena, and I still want to take to the sky like a songbird. I'm not sure if that excuse works anymore.

Running is a risky idea. I should conserve my energy for when there's someone on my tail. My loud footsteps would be a beacon for careers. I just can't afford it. But… if I'm going to die anyways, why should living longer be my first priority? I know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell. Not that I've ever seen a snowball, really, but I know about them. My mom would tell me all about the falling, if fleeting whiteness that graced her more than once in Five and that she had managed to catch a watery glimpse of one perfect day in Eleven. But that's another thing I shouldn't be thinking about.

I want to live, though. I can't believe it, can barely justify it to myself, especially seeing as I've only been attached to life by a faint string for so long. But when it comes down to the wire, I guess I just want those few precious extra seconds.

And so I walk.

There's comfort in that anyways. My heartbeat is… calmer. Calmer is the right word. No frantic butterflies in my ribcage, no wild rabbits or anything. Just a beating heart. Just a surprisingly sane frantic insanity that everyone here takes on.

I walk straight into a mirror tangled up in my thoughts.

As it collapses beneath me, I think that if I'm still alive in a few minutes I won't count this as my smartest move! Not that I make a lot of those! The reflective surface _flinches_ when I crash into it, and absorbs me. And I can feel gooey silver plasma envelop me, simultaneously icily hot and burning cold, a cocoon forming around my… _damp_ skin. And it becomes so, so obvious that I'm going to suffocate! That, ironically and I'm sure hilarious to some Capitol folk that my suppression of desires that would get me killed led to me… getting killed! A sort of bitterness rises to my throat, (along with vomit as I'm about to die), a bitterness compounded with a sordid sense of humor I've never felt before, and then I die.

Except, no, I don't. I burst free from my cocoon, and feel air on my face.

I open my eyes, and powdery gilded dust floats off of my body in clouds. It's warm. It's warm, and it's snowing.

The world around me is lush and green, saturated with colors and smells, and yet it's snowing. White flows to the earth, returning to grass and seed. And me? I collapse, facedown onto this dirt pollinated with snow. I'm in a rainforest. And the sun is shining, and it's green and warm and everything smells really nice, and somehow, despite everything, despite the logical fallacies there, despite the urge to run like a dog and prove that it isn't real, it's snowing.

It's snowing in this beautiful rainforest because the gamemakers are idiots and prefer aesthetics to realism and for some reason, without any preamble or sense to it, I decide that being alive is okay for now.

 _Gareth Barkely, District 7 Male_

"There's nothing you could have done."

Ajax doesn't tell me that. I tell myself that. Part of me wishes, desperately, for any reassurance from him, or, fuck, even just acknowledgement of my existence. And another part of me realizes how selfish it is. Why should he care? Preston and Quinn are dead. What do my feelings matter in the _face_ of that! Why should they matter?! Everything I've said and done, everything that's _happened_ renders them so spectacularly selfish and meaningless and unimportant that I am downright disgusted with myself, but I want to hear those words all the same. I want to breathe them in. I want forgiveness, I want a reprive, I want to be distracted from _all_ of this, I want it to leave me _alone-_

But I can't leave well enough alone. I failed to protect them. I failed to protect them and I can feel loathing overwhelm me, clear as anything.

And it comes to me through the blue.

I have to be better. I have to. The feeling of being depended on is an indescribable emotion, the lightest and most incredible feeling I've ever felt. From the very beginning, I hated being needed for something. My family, my evil witch of a stepmother insured that I would lack this emotion, that I would never feel this euphoria. That control over me wasn't something I wanted.

But that was because I could never do it.

Because I was such a horrible failure and every task fell apart in my hands, because I never did anything right for Ivy and because nothing I ever did was right in their eyes I began to believe that I hated the weight of responsibility. But when I was with everyone earlier, before the bloodbath unfolded and something inside of me did too, irreparably, I realized that they depended on me and I finally cared enough to try for them, cared enough about them to care about myself and trust in my ability to protect them, the ability that had prevented me from protecting Ivy, even if she said she didn't need my help.

So I need to be better. I need to be better so I can deny this revulsion at the emotion of being depended on, so that I can feel the indescribable love and hope that comes with being needed by people who care about you for whatever reason, who love and trust you for whatever reason.

I have to be dependable so I can feel it again.

My reverie shatters as we make our way around a corner, and Ajax speaks. "Hey, is that…"

A slim figure with a head of tawny blond hair, tying a knot of string around the corner of a mirror. Vaguely familiar, vaguely… terrifying?

The girl from One.

There's a very pregnant pause as we stare at eachother. It's common knowledge she's a coward, but right now… she doesn't at all look the part. She looks surprised at seeing us, sure, but not the slightest hint of fear twists her lovely face. The seconds stretch on, a staring match. Tension bites at my skin, when finally-

"Shit."

She blurts out those words with frustration, as her brow creases. "I should have cried. I really, really should have _cried,_ and _scampered,_ and I should have run- but I'm not fast enough anymore, I'm so tired-

I'm going to be completely honest here. As we stand in our makeshift Mexican standoff, I have no idea what's happening. Even I can feel the threat hanging in the air, and I'm an oblivious guy, but yeah, I have no idea what's happening. I don't think Ajax does either, if I'm being honest. Chablis is holding all the cards, but I don't know what makes those cards relevant. I don't know how scared I should be.

But considering the glazed over, exasperated and the slightest bit deranged glow in her eyes, I think the answer to that just might be _very._

Malice emanates from her glare. I'm just thinking we might want to run away, like _right now,_ when she falls.

It's quick. Her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses, her legs suddenly too weak to support her any longer. She hits the ground with a thunk, her hair spilling every which way. The only thing that alerts us to her survival after a brief moment of panic is the wheeze in her breath.

Ajax and I stare at eachother. I know he wants us to leave her here to die, alone and spread-eagle in a hall of mirrors, not even conscious to remember herself dying. And I can't blame him. In fact, I'm never going to blame him for anything again.

But I have to prove I can be responsible with something- anything again. And if I fail, I'll fail to save this person I don't care about, and couldn't possibly. It's like a trial run.

I nudge her unconscious body with my foot.

Going to be one hell of a trial run.

 _Taurus Black, District 2 Male_

I still stand by my statement from long ago that emotions burden you. They're petty, meaningless things that tie you down to obligations you're better off discarding. But some primal feelings mean something to you. Some emotions that ravage you are relevant ones. Love? Trust? Unimportant.

But the thrill in your blood when you catch a spider in your web, when the fly crawls to it's demise.

That's the feeling the reverberates more than anything else. One that cannot be denied. And I wouldn't dream of denying it. The passion that drives me to kill, towards fame is born there. When a source is so potent, so important, I wouldn't dream of smothering it.

It's important to stay objective, to play the game to win. But if you fail to lose yourself in a glorious miasma of bloodthirstiness, what kind of warrior are you? You deserve no victory, you deserve no power if it isn't a delight for you. Your leadership might make everything worse for everyone else, but if you yourself trust in it and wring any kind of impossible joy, than it's yours to win. You bested it.

I can feel myself rising above my compatriots each and every day now. My pathetic colleagues are nothing more than the flattest and most irrelevant of obstacles, a limp and weak challenge to inject some drama into the fare that nevertheless will be no burden at all.

The clock ticks. The mirrors shift. We discover where they lead. We, the Careers, will continue to pillage and burn under the guise of equality. But we all know who stands superior.

I deserve leadership because I taste it more than anything else. The blood in the earth.

All they taste is a victory that they'll never have.

 _Teryn Gardner, District 9 Female_

What a crock of shit.

I can feel these words extending beyond me into infamy. Because really. If I survive this ordeal, through some incredible miracle, what's going to be engraved in my head is: "What a _crock_ of _steaming hot shit._ "

It's funny the way our brain works. How when in stressful, unbelievable situations our mind forms connections to the most asinine things and phrases. Our brains go haywire with stress and madness and begin to create memories that never leave you, triggered by specific conditions. The most benign of words or objects can leave you huddled into a ball, sobbing like a baby because of fears you thought you had discarded and experiences you never asked for. But nobody really asks for the Hunger Games, and those who do are told from the beginning that this is everything they've ever wanted, everything they've ever aspired to, simultaneously tamed and made bloodthirsty, turning their loyalty to a place and group of people who's never cared about them except to the extent of making them their war dogs. In the past, it was impossibly tragic to me. Now, I still see it as a tragedy of mass brainwashing and propaganda forced onto vulnerable children, but it's harder to be sympathetic when the people most affected by this awful doctrine is yourself, in the sense that you are so totally going to be murdered and eviscerated by one of these desensitized child gladiators. It's a horrible thing that they've been trained, abused, and shaped by forces who love them only as the person they've sculpted and groomed them to be, but they aren't the ones being murdered most of the time. They're doing the murdering, they're killing us, and the act of extending a hand to them and understanding the lack of autonomy they have is easier when you aren't pinned to the ground by their knives, as I am right now.

What a crock of shit, my brain reprises as Venie's foot digs itself in my back, her knife tracing the flesh beneath the thin and not at all protective layer of my clothing. I know that I'm not going to be alive long enough for my brain to fuse together this traumatic experience and that goddamned line into a buddy cop sitcom of trauma, but if I was I know it's not the point of the knife I'd remember. I need a miracle, but rather than coming up with one I keep ruminating on this brain that's no longer going to be functioning _very very soon,_ and the systemic dehumanization of Careers of all people.

Stupid fucking brain, please panic so I can get out of this situation.

Next to me, Heavenly wheezes like a deflating balloon, her head coated in a sheen of sweat like the goddamned morphling junkie and complete wreck of a person she is, that slowpoke for whom I hold nothing but contempt for right now, who tripped and fell and now is the reason I'm going to fucking die, that I'm never going to feel or do or believe in or love or lust after or hate or yell or scream or cry or become sick or sing or dance or think or write or read or see the people I love without question, without reason, that my brain is now transforming into hate because of how they _couldn't save me, they couldn't do something for me,_ anything ever again. It's this absolute seething fury I feel for Heavenly right now that alerts me to the fact that I've begun to actually care for the _wretch._ I hate her so much and I hate him so much, my little brother, the light of my life and I don't know why I am the way that I am that leads me to think such scathing thoughts, god I can't believe I used to think I was nice. I used to think I was kind and sweet and had a heart of gold beneath that temper but I don't. I am just fucking awful, I am this completely unbearable person that doesn't deserve to breath and speak and be alive but despite everything really wants to. Am I not kind? Am I not sweet and just and protective over these people who never deserved goddamn anything and am I not heaving for breath right now, crying out in pain as Venie's heel digs into my back?

Well. I know the answer to that last bit.

"We haven't gotten prey for a while," Venie croons. Her breath fucking stinks. I can't smell it, prostrated beneath her like this, but believe me, I can tell. "You'll be delicious." Taurus grunts in affirmation. I can imagine the pair from Four rolling their eyes now. Her knife bites into my skin and I hiss, but that's nothing compared to the sudden shock of the point bursting through my skin like goddamn Alien. I scream out, part pain, part terror, and part relief because a movement this clumsy means Venie has to have been startled, and startled she is, because I'm no longer pinned to the ground. I climb upwards clumsily, my back dripping like a leaky faucet and I very quickly notice several things, all of which are about to come together and form what the cool kids like to call _a big problem._

1\. Serena is screaming at Taurus and pulling him off of Heavenly, yelling something along the lines of "We _kill_ them, we don't _rape_ them, you psychopath!"

2\. Serena and Maximus were standing close next to eachother muttering something under their breath, so Serena lunging forwards to restrain Taurus caused Maximus to stumble backwards, sending him into Venie.

3\. That movement sent Venie forwards, causing the point of her knife to enter my back and cleave apart my skin like butter. Now Venie is leaping to her feet and running towards me and _oh god oh what the fuck ooooooowwwww shiiiiiiiiittttt that's a knife and it's in my stomach jesus Christ it huuurts aaaauugghh_

4\. Taurus is yelling something about conquest and prizes and uuuHUUAAARGH I DON'T CARE IM BLEEDING LIKE A STUCK PIG AND OH GOD MY INTERNAL ORGANS ARE SOUP HOLY SHIT

5\. I am now headbutting Venie in the face and she's going down much easier than I thought she would (what a fucking glass cannon) but now my head hurts and my stomach is hahhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugghhhhhhhhh okay okay okay okay okay okay okay _wow adrenaline holy shit what the fuck how am I alive and ruhnnnnnnnnnning_

6\. Heavenly has extracted herself from the quarrel between Serena and Taurus that's now extended to Maximus yelling at him as well and Taurus brandishing a big scary axe and I'm grabbing her hand and she's yanking at my arm and we're running away away away and I hate everything and myself and the gaping hole in my stomach but the knife is keeping it in and I have to trust in Heavenly and the knife to hold my organs in place and the ability of my brain to keep chugging on and to form these connections to tell me what to do in the future, the ability of humanity and myself to keep RUNNING despite that FUCKING KNIFE IN MY STOMACH HAAAUAGH and I have to trust my legs and little brother and the Careers to continue being incompetent idiots who never deserved this, who were taught from the beginning to be like this and feel like this and kill like this and never knew better, never could form words that didn't taste like blood on their tongues or believe in ideals that didn't encourage hate and masculinity and spite for those who never deserved the consequences of that poisonous _shit_ idealogy and ooooowwww god I am not coherent enough for this.

I just need to keep running and going and trusting in Heavenly in myself, trusting the people I hate and trusting the knife that hurts me and the dogs that savage and kill me I need to be and trust and love in hate, trust in hate as the force that makes me love and yell and live and run and something something hoe I'm barely sentient everything hurts so much and I'm just hightailing it out of there with the brain in my head changing the spotlight, changing the ideas and concepts, switching around the memories I don't need and replacing them with fear and speculation and the wide and uncontrollable everything and the words I know will never leave me now, the words linked to me in a nigh-Pavlovian fugue-

" _What. A crock. Of shit."_

And sure, I might be possessed and fatigued by phrases I care so little about and fuss and bother at me like what a crock of shit but as I run with my insides sloshing and my hands clutched in Heavenly's and my future unclear and foggy there is a silver lining and the silver lining is- the silver lining is- the silver lining is-

Venie has got to have one hell of a headache.

 **A/N: Self Hate: The Chapter. Seriously though, these kids have som S. That might be my fault though. It's really cathartic to write about hatred and negative emotions as a way of purging your own, and I get to use some really florid languages and insults, which is yeah, always it's own special brand of fun. Also, holy shit, wow, a chapter that covers self-loathing that** _ **doesn't**_ **have Nyso in it? It's a Christmas… well, not miracle, because I like Nyso even if writing him is really hard, but it is a Christmas unnatural happenstance. Well. Not a** _ **Christmas**_ **unnatural happenstance by chance, but an unnatural happenstance that happens post-Christmas season, although by this point I might just be falling down a semantics rabbit hole that I have no business falling into considering how little I know about semantics, like, in general. I just say whichever words look funky and right and hope they're grammatically correct. Please do not rely on me for writing advice of any kind, I am a major disappointment on that front, and also the rest of them. All of the fronts are imbued with my own special flavor(s) of suck, from Cranberry to Key Lime to recently-diagnosed ADD. ANYWAYS! My readership has without a doubt decreased from the** _ **last**_ **time I took a several-month-long break, although that time was a much more offensive go-around the crutch of the** _ **announced hiatus**_ **and I am somehow even better of a writer after this 2/3 month break than my 8 month one (although that might have a fair bit to do with the fact that I've been actually writing, just… not this fanfiction haha), and at this point I don't know if legitimately** _ **anyone**_ **is reading anymore. So I** _ **implore**_ **you, if you're reading, pretty please review. The amount of joy I find myself dealing with when I get a review is like twice my normal serotonin intake, so please do, even if it's brief. BUT HEY, a long comment would be even better! So, any predictions, thoughts, compliments, criticism or flat out hate please hand to me on a silver platter because, y'know, motivation fuels me, water is wet etc etc etc. Who do you think is going to kick the bucket next? There is at least one death coming next after this bloody dry spell, I'll promise that much, so drop a prediction at the door! What do you think will result from Gareth and Ajax's tentative alliance with Chablis and why is it her betraying them? (I mean really, this is Chablis. Let us be reasonable here folks, she's not going to be nice to these schmucks just because they saved her from dying of malnutrition. It's really a question of** _ **when**_ **she's going to stab them in the back.) On a scale of mildly irritating to mind-numbingly boring, how obnoxious and uninteresting is Taurus? (No, you cannot answer with "He's interesting." We know you are lying.) Things between Teryn and Heavenly are certainly fraught now, and the Careers just might have a vendetta against the pair now from escaping their endless wrath (LOL u guys are the most ineffective troupe of clowns ive seen in a while you killed like one guy, get over yourselves) That sounds like it might kind of be important later. Well, whatever the topic is that provokes your interest, drop a review and I'll see you next time, hopefully before winter break ends for DAY 4!**


	36. Day The Fourth: Comes Responsibility

**A/N: A WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS KIND OF GROSS. Anyways, hello hello hello and welcome back to Mirror, Mirror! I don't have a lot to say this time around, because normally I'm horrifically late and have to trip over myself excusing my general terrible-osity. But hey, this time I'm on time! Kind of. Today we'll be visiting a neglected female alliance, yet another psychopath, and Chablis, who I imagine has a lot to catch up on. Without any further ado, onto the show!**

 _Crystaille Alexander, District 10 Female_

I'm never going to find my allies.

Those words hit me with much less force than I would expect. Something like that, you'd imagine, would slam into you with the vengeance of a truck. However, to me it seems much less threatening, less terrifying, less of a curse on me and more of the natural result of a hellish place like this. What other outcome could there possibly be? What could this even potentially result in, except my death and destruction and complete annihilation of spirit and soul and motivation to move forwards and yadda yadda yadda. At this point I've grown tired of my own rumination. I have nothing to live for, nothing to believe in, so why should I waste my time circlejerk wallowing in self-pity when I could be remembering times I want to hold onto up until the moment I die? My family, my horses, my farm, even my grandmother despite everything, all of these are memories I'd rather cherish than spit on in a petty fit of melancholy.

As I stumble through the arena, bouncing off mirrors and no doubt cultivating the wound in my foot I sustained during the bloodbath (thanks _Venie)_ I try and bring to mind some more reassuring memories. Riding Gingersnap. Being flung from Gingersnap, breaking my arm, and convincing Russen to feed me for a whole month after my arm had fully healed. Doing the laundry and getting my allowance afterwords, which I, of course, would lord over Russen. Dressing up in the skimpiest clothes imaginably and going out to dinner with Grandma and her female friends in them, giggling to myself about the looks on their faces when I showed up in a "get smoked" hat. Cycling through these memories allow me some comfort. Sure, the fact that I'm going to die puts a bit of a damper on the mood, but if I don't hold my head up high here, when will I ever? This is just another challenge to overcome, like successfully dismounting a horse taller than two of me or standing up to Grandma.

Of course, not that I have any faith whatsoever that I'll overcome these games. But I do know that I'll be overcoming past and present misery, because despite the knowledge that I have that I'll never find my allies, never talk to my family again, never be able to recreate these memories I cling to for any and all potential solace, I'm still going to live like I have many days ahead of me. There's no point in being miserable when death comes.

I think on this as I round the corner. Obviously it's a good philosophy, it just… something about it unnerves me, to the extent that the hairs on my arm are standing up.

Or maybe that's not my thoughts.

The place I've accidentally stumbled into is nothing like the rest of the winding, labyrinthian arena. It's a huge, cavernous space, a wide circle with mirrors paneling the walls and an unbroken sheet of mirror covering the dome-shaped ceiling, with a small hole in the top, one that sends a single solitary sliver of light down as a sharp contrast to the rest of the huge, dark, circular room. I rush over to the center and to the light, and stare directly up. The sky is blue up there, lazy, serene, and undisturbed. I can feel my heart slam against my ribcage, an arrow pointing directly up to that pinprick of open air, a taunting hole in this cage, beckoning me but knowing there's no way I'll get up there.

I've nearly forgotten about the ominous feeling that gave me goosebumps up until something eclipses that shining light.

It's the underbelly of a helicopter, the seal of Panem painted on the bottom. I stare up at it, open-mouthed and open-eyed. A hatch on the bottom opens up and I reflexively take a step back at the amount of bugfuck nuts my nerves are going, away from the hole into the outside world. A round capsule hits the ground from the hole, and it closes.

The capsule looks like an oversized pill, but black and shiny like the side of one of those fancy Capitolite cars. The manufactured, unnatural look it has is sending off signals in my brain I didn't know existed. Warning signs too urgent to believe. I've gotten three steps away from the thing when it explodes. For a quick, shining second my skin is screaming with pain and the next moment everything goes black.

I slowly return to consciousness a minute or so later. Everything around me is unbearably blurry, and my entire body is throbbing with scorching pain. The air in my throat is hot, and the ground underneath me is weirdly malleable and… sticky.

I try to push myself off the floor but my limbs don't want to cooperate and I end up flopping all over the ground like boneless spaghetti. The spit on my tongue is boiling, and I do mean boiling. Desperate for air, I spit out the blood and mucus gathering in my throat, but as I crawl from the center of the room on my hands alone, a feeling of futility rises within me at about the same thing something long and… furry wraps itself around my leg and sends me flying backwards towards the source of the explosion.

I hit the ground with a thud, still in the clutches of something furry, muscular, and wet. Panic and dizziness hit me like nothing I've ever felt before, and I retch at the smell of the crispy, slime-soaked room as I twist around to stare whatever it is that reeled me in- _like a lamb to the slaughter, like a horse to the euthanasia, like an, uh, fuck, person to their inevitable death_ \- and view it for myself.

It doesn't take me very long to wish I hadn't.

The thing towering above me is massive. It's covered in reflective plates, my scared and bruised face shining in each and every one. Beneath the clumsy, chitinous outer layer of plating, fur sprouts, pushing it's way up from the cracks. All eight legs are covered with fur and open wounds, leaking a metallic silver liquid. The eyes are round and empty, surrounded by long eyelashes, each eyelash sharp and a coppery color. The maw of the thing is gigantic, with fangs long enough to slice me in half- _vertically._ Every inch of that gaping mouth is stuffed full of blood, reflective teeth, and the tiny slivers of space that aren't are clogged with spit. It is, without a doubt, the most horrifying thing I have ever seen.

It stares at me. I stare at it.

Then, without the slightest hint of warning, the ground another me disappears as the thing bites into me and flings me into the air.

For a split second, I'm floating, my blood and viscera hanging in the air with me, too shocked to scream or shit my pants or do _anything_. My leg is numb, but I know it's been obliterated. I can barely breathe. I can barely think. All I can do as I fall back down is hold on to the memories that have fueled me for my last living days, and remember that everything was better, and when I die, that's one step forwards towards making everything better for someone else. I didn't find my allies. But because I didn't, they'll have a better chance.

Then the thing's tooth enters my head, and it's lights out.

 _Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female_

BOOM!

The sound reverberates through the arena. Futura and I flinch. I know I should be happy, happy that another obstacle preventing me from winning was removed, but… I can't think of humans as obstacles. That could've been Crystaille. That could've been- no, probably _was,_ an innocent child.

Futura stares emptily into the distance. "Fourteen left… she whispers to herself, eyes glassy and distant. There's something in that expression… she's just so far away. And I'm not sure of how to reach her. Her thoughts are separated from mine, I know that. Our brains work so differently, each chugging along to a different tune, with a different blueprint, a different way of seeing the world. When something enters Futura's mind, it goes through a long and complicated process of reasoning, through a machine of clinical logic. I know she's been trying to shut these machines down, but although I'd never admit it, there's an undeniable allure in just letting your mind be sterilized. My head, meanwhile, is less of a factory and more of a funhouse, except no one is having fun and everyone is screaming. When I have an idea, it also undergoes a complex procedure, except that procedure has to do less with how this will make everything work out, and more about how it makes me feel something in the moment.

It's this process that's leading me to impulsively give Futura a hug.

She stiffens under my touch, tense, like a wound-up doll that hasn't been let go frolic. I deepen my grip, hoping even if she doesn't reciprocate, she'll at the very least loosen up. But she doesn't. She just stands there, still and rimrod-straight, up until her shoulders begin to shake.

Concern burrows within me, harsh and sharp, maternal. I pull back, and see that she's crying.

Tears pour from her eyes, running down her pale, ashen face. It's not a silent thing- it only takes a few seconds for her to start ugly crying, snot dripping down her face, her eyes forced shut with the force of her sobs. I lunge forwards and encapsulate her in a hug again. She shouldn't be crying. I know this better than anyone. She hasn't done anything to deserve this, she never should have been here. We're the same age, but it's so easy to consider her younger than me. Because that's what she really is, isn't she? She's like a little kid. Futura wants to be so smart and so strong and so over friends, allies, so distanced from that plebian bullshit… internalized just like a very small kid would internalize that. She doesn't want anyone to play with her toys, but, being the older woman she is, those toys are her heart, something more vulnerable.

I have no idea where I've gotten this understanding from, but it's a fierce and hungry comprehension, the truth that won't leave me alone, the facts of the matter that want me to know they exist. As long as she keeps crying like a baby I'll continue to comfort her, because, I realize, that's what I'm here to do. And if that's my duty, I'm willing to perform it. I'm not a mother, but I do have the compassion necessary to help her in a way that maybe nobody else could.

It takes a few minutes, but we finally fall apart, Futura's loud tears slowly growing less ferocious. "I'm… sorry." The whispers, and I can almost hear the flinch. "I didn't mean to get emotional over you. I just haven't been… hugged in a while, is all."

 _Or ever,_ I refrain from adding.

She stands up, clothes wrinkled and face wet with tears that haven't quite dried yet. "I need to um. Think." She exhales. "I can't, ah-"

Her face goes paper-white. I wonder for a split second what cut her off when I feel the coldest of touches on my back, and, for some reason, collapse to the ground. I fall in front of Futura, mouth open against the carpeted floor, when I feel my own blood on my outstretched hands and realize.

Oh fuck.

 _Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male_

The red fish chases the blue fish in a circle on the blue fish's making. The red fish is crying. The blue fish is dying. Now the blue fish is the red fish. Who can say when fish becomes fish?

" _Damn brat! I'll fucking kill you, I will. Worthless piece of trash! You'll be out on the streets forever… unless…"_

The red fish has an open mouth. It's a gaping fish. The blue fish, then the red fish, was a dead fish. Meanwhile, the red fish, then the blue fish, is soon to be deader.

" _That hurts, doesn't it? Now you know how it feels! Now you know how you're fucking going to be, the ways you're shaped for the rest of your life! When people meet you in the streets and you wring their chickenshit necks, remember who made you this way! Remember who carved you and harnessed you and reinvented you after you were abandoned like sewage on the side of the road! I'm not your father, pipsqueak, but you better believe you exist because of me! I am the beginning. Always remember that. All roads lead back to me, in your head, in your heart, and in this terrible world."_

 **Remember, remember why you sang the song. Remember who your mother loves. Forget your compulsions and live forever.**

The blue fish is screaming with an open maw. Fishy eyes bug outwards, fishy rage warps the mirrors. In the real world they're a fish, you know that, you're a sane man. In the mirror you see a girl. Could your head be lying to you? Could the world be lying to you? Or is it the fish that's lying to you?

They made your head, not you. You know it's a perfect head, designed for combat. Designed to kill.

This world is too big to lie for one person. It must tell the truth. You know this.

" _The world won't lie to you! The people in it will! But this world is indifferent to you, and that's fucking worse."_

The fish is lying to you. You figure it's time to do some modest cutting and gutting.

You charge towards the fish with the sun in your lungs. You can't lose, you're euphoric. Blood soaks you, light dances around you. Heavy rain drips into your mouth. You cut once. Salt! Twice. Sinew. Three times. Ink. Memory. Touch and scent, a delectable cocktail, a kill of anticipation. She screams and lunges forwards- _she?_ \- her face, her human face, contorted with animalistic rage and tears.

Animals. Tears. Humanity. Human? Human? Human? Is she alive?

Is she okay?

" _Get up. Hit me again. I'm glad to have the honor of the first person you savage, you little monster."_

Your name is Rodrick Olivier. You have very little knowledge about who you are or what the hell you're doing. You're covered in blood. There's a girl in front of you, and a girl slumped on the ground behind you. Her skin is under your fingernails. In your right nails you're holding a sword, and a liver is impaled on it. The girl in front of you is screaming. She's backing away from you and running. When you rasped your sharp nails down her eyelids, you got close enough to get her tears on her face and her eyelashes in your teeth. You feel vaguely nauseous. You feel more than vaguely nauseous. You're going to be sick.

What have I done?

One fish, two fish. Red fish, blue fish. _Hit me again._ **Remember what you're here to do.**

 _Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female_

"I have to say, I wasn't expecting to come to tied up like a pig."

"Shut up." The 7 boy grumbles. He's shorter than I am, and skinnier. (Somehow. God damnit waist, why won't you just collapse on yourself?) I could overpower him easily. If I wasn't completely swaddled in a cocoon of ropes. "So, are you going to cook me over a bonfire or what? Come on, I don't have all day. Roast me or release me." He exhales, fingernails visibly biting into his thigh. That'll leave a mark- and I'll exploit it if it's possible. There'll be more give there when I inevitably have to stick a knife in him. "I said shut up!" "Ignore her," says the hot one from 8. "I can't!" Hisses the less-hot one. "Her voice is incredibly grating." The hot one pulls out a package of crackers from his knapsack. My stomach growls audibly. "If you don't want to deal with the noise, you shouldn't have kidnapped her." The hot one intones. His voice is light and cheerful, but I can sense a note of tension there, almost like… remorse? That's interesting. And valuable. Probably

Hot acid blooms in my stomach. God, I'm so hungry, I can feel my stomach absorbing itself with vigor. Must be why my observations are less lurid. I try and pull together information, but my head is fuzzy and the uncomfortable conditions I am aren't helping me pull myself together. This is completely humiliating.

"Can you at least feed me?" I croak. I hope they don't see how red my cheeks are. I don't want to anyone to be under the impression that groveling embarrasses me- I might have driven my façade into the ground out of delirious hunger, but god damn it if I'm not going to try and salvage something from the burning wreckage that's my plans for escaping this reflective hellhole alive. I'm a slut. Sluts don't get flustered at begging. That's like, Being A Hoe For Dummies level shit. You aren't unprepared or humiliated by anything, except when it's sexy, and despite the fact that I'm tied up, this is really, really not sexy.

The less hot boy's face flashes and contorts with sudden, extreme guilt, an emotion that might make sense in any other context where you've tied up a starving girl and forgotten to feed her, but not when that girl is an outstanding bitch from One who refuses to learn your name. He quickly grabs an apple from the knapsack and runs over, the gesture reflected a thousand times in a thousand mirrors. He holds it out to me expectantly. I match his idiotic look with a deadpan stare. "My hands are tied."

He flushes with surprise and quickly moves to untie my hands. I marvel for a moment at the rope burns on my bare, caramel flesh, taking the opportunity to draw out his embarrassment. After a few loaded seconds of dabbing at the red streaks dashing across my hands, I take the apple and attempt to disguise my intense, ravenous hunger. I'm not entirely sure why. It's hardly a trump card- maybe I'm simply holding onto the remaining miserable scraps of dignity.

Ha. As if I had any.

Despite my faux-reluctance, I finish the apple before the minute is up, scarfing it down to the core. I am nowhere near full. But it's not like I can afford anything else.

I change the topic from food. "So, why am I tied up exactly?"

The gentle, near-protective look in his face with a matronly cherry on top is quickly replaced with a dark scowl. Looks like he'll tolerate me, even take care of me until I open my mouth. I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be incentive to get me to shut my mouth more often, but that's most assuredly not happening. "We- Ajax and I- didn't want you to hurt anyone." He exhales. He's lying. I have no idea why, or what he's covering up, but I take the bait anyways. "What makes you think I would hurt anyone?" I pout, lips plush and gutting, eyes watering with false tears like minnows in a pond. The shtick usually works pretty well, but not on people who've had the misfortune of dealing with my… wit. He simply frowns even more. "It's obvious you've been faking it. You're nowhere near timid, as your previous demeanor suggests. If you've been faking that, what else could you potentially be faking? Considering you're from One… we don't want to risk setting you loose."

I pull myself up from the ground where I've been eating my apple in a come hither pose, maneuvering despite the absurdly tight ropes. Where did they even get these? And why haven't they been using them for nooses? "Setting me loose? What am I, a guard dog? Geez, boy from 7, you really know how to treat a woman." He hisses and his pupils look like slits. "It's! Gareth! Barkely! And! He's! Ajax! Walker! Why is it so hard for you to remember our names?!"

I hum thoughtfully. "Ajax… I'll remember that. It's integral to know the hot one's name, after all."

"God _damn it!_ "

This is… surprisingly entertaining. As Gareth rages and Ajax giggles in the background through a mouthful of cracker, I decide to wait a few days before sabotaging their asses.

Really, who am I to deny myself some fun before I need to get serious?

 _ **Eulogies**_

 **15** **th** **: Crystaille Alexander, District 10 Female- Eaten by Mirror Arachnids**

 **Crystailllle! I highkey lowkey loved you. There was an incredible air of joy about you, a childlike wonder that in no way decreased your intelligence or increased your naivete- you were purely content. In truth, it was because of this lovely, enthusiastic spirit that I felt I needed to kill you so early- You were the only tribute that didn't have any potential to grow in a positive way because you were already completely satisfied with yourself. And while this is an admirable and unusual trait to have irl, it didn't make you a victor. Breaking your spirit and reducing you to a husk of a person would be** _ **interesting…**_ **but it would require taking a lot of liberties with you (LMAO, not like I haven't already ;P) and I didn't want to do that to you. This is honestly the best outcome for you- well, as "best" as being devoured by horrible mutant fear-spiders can be. Thank you [tba] for a wonderful, outgoing, and easy to write tribute!**

 **14** **th** **: Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female- Murderized by Rodrick [D9]**

 **CAJSA OMG. Killing you physically hurt, I swear to god. You were just so real and umami in so many gorgeous little ways. Your maternal protectiveness, your status as the mediator, how you secretly seemed to revel in arguments, your intelligence and tendency to state the obvious- all of these little quirks combined made you a spicy and realistic tribute. I've likened you to Kanaya Maryam more than once in my head, believe me. But you aren't my victor. You give up too easily, you tend to blame things on yourself that weren't technically your fault, and you were willing to die for your allies- all of those things combined meant you hadn't a snowball's chance in hell without going through the same character progression Crystaille could've potentially gone through that I outlined in her eulogy. I think you've got a tendency to blend in and remain subtle, which was why it was sort of hard to differentiate you from Crystaille and Futura, but in the end you were a clear person of your own and NOT one I'd want to fuck with. And then I killed you anyways. ;D. Thank you FrlBarth for this amazing tribute!**

 **A/N: After a dry spell when it comes to death, I bring you a chapter completely saturated with blood! How do you feel about Crystaille and Cajsa's deaths? How do you feel about my metaphorical death trying to finish this today while also watching Gilmore Girls? What do you think is going to result of Chablis, Gareth, and Ajax's makeshift, shaky alliance? She sure seems more reluctant to betray them now, doesn't she? Or maybe she really is looking to squeeze some more entertainment out of that mess? On a scale of 10 to 10 how batshit nuts would you rate Rodrick as? (There are no other options.) Worried about Futura? I know I am. Please, if you have any answers to this questions, drop a review! And even if you don't, drop a review anyway! They drive me like I'm a taxi. Anyways, thank you for reading (and reviewing, as I know you're going to ;D), and I'll see you next time for DAY 5!**

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